


thrive they will

by WonderAss



Series: golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone [5]
Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Depression, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Jaggie - Freeform, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, POV Multiple, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Social Commentary, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 88,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: Change can hurt. Jackson cuts ties with the Avery Foundation, as well as his mother, and heads back to school to study medical virtual reality. Maggie is moving full-speed ahead at Grey-Sloan, hot off the heels of her life-saving rechargeable hearts, and is given a shocking new case with a ticking clock. Despite all that's on their plates, life isn't finished throwing its curveballs.Disasters. Declarations. Miracles. They're all apart of this thriving business, and thrive they will.
Relationships: Jackson Avery/Maggie Pierce
Series: golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547635
Comments: 74
Kudos: 30





	1. what we see between

**Song Inspiration:** _"_ Sunrise" by Adria Kain

*

_you remind me of the sunrise_

_and I wanna take my time and_

_wait for it_

_wait for it_

_i don't wanna go away_

*

_What do you believe in?_

_The debate between instinct, higher powers and concepts we can't even fathom have been going as long as humans have been carving paths into the planet. You believe in what you do because of how you were, or weren't, raised. Because of what you know...and what you don't. For one it could be the belief in the swing of a hammer when crafting the floorboards for a new house. Nice, reliable gravity. For others it's the resounding safety that comes with a shared agreement beneath a shared roof. The comfortable consensus of a compassionate collective. For another it could be the belief in...nothing at all. That what will be, will be._

_Believing in everything, how it is and how it could be, is the open secret we all have access to._

* * *

"Not **now** , Jackie. God, you can be just as needy as your mother, sometimes."

Jackson tightens his mouth, clamping down on the need to remind his stupid grandfather and his gross toothbrush hair what his real, _actual_ name is. This is an awful day, though. A _very_ awful one, probably for the recordbooks. His brow has those hard lines, the ones that look drawn in pencil, and he hasn't looked up from his desk even once. Everything smells like old coffee cups and printer paper. It makes him wrinkle his nose. Coffee is so _gross_.

"...But Mom said-"

His grandfather slaps a hand against the table.

" _I said not now!_ "

Time to go. Jackson gingerly shuts the door, then slinks down the hall. Maybe he'll go outside. Stretch his legs a little and get out of this stuffy, gray place. He's dreaming of playing with Frodo in the grass and sunlight when his mother rests a surprise hand on his shoulder. Her nails are freshly done, shiny enough to reflect his face. She must have a meeting today.

"...Mom?"

He tightens his mouth all over again when she takes his other shoulder and steers him like a lawnmower down the hall. She doesn't say a word, but she's scowling. He knows why. She _hated_ that Grandpa liked his desk and papers more than him, even though he's supposed to be babysitting. Not like Norbert, who always took him out to the lake or to the waterfall, no matter what. This dumb, boring day feels like his fault, though, and it's hard to figure out why. Jackson waits until they stop in the living room, then gives his mother's hand a tug, careful not to touch her pretty nails.

"Why's Grandpa angry today?" He should probably not say so, but he does, out of the side of his mouth. "He's _always_ angry. I think he's getting old." He's cheered when she doesn't rebuke his little remark, simply looking off out the stained glass window like she can't wait to get some fresh air, too. "Let's go outside."

Today can't be all bad if she says yes to _his_ ideas for once. Jackson bounces down the front steps, enjoying the _click-clack_ of his heels on the stone and the echo just a second later. Hopefully they can go to the park later. Maybe go to the hiking trail, even though his mother hated the very _idea_ of dirt. He stops bouncing at a soft sound behind him, right where the sidewalk meets the street. The sun's shining so bright he has to squint when she kneels in front of him, her shadow just below his chin and her hair rippling like a bedsheet. It was always perfect, and that's why he could never touch it, either.

Then his mother smiles, the first he's seen all day, and pets his cheek with the back of her knuckles.

"Baby...do you know what legacy means?"

"It means..." Jackson scrunches down on his memory. He's heard it before. It's an adult word, a book word. "...a really famous history."

He grows warm with her approving smile, even as he can't explain why there's something sad about it. He hurts at how much he doesn't know, suddenly. How _much_ he's still not doing right. The lives of adults were always so complicated. Sometimes he wanted _so_ badly to grow up and have his own huge hospital already, but other times he wants nothing to do with it all.

"Very close, baby. Very close. You don't have to be famous to have a legacy..." Her expression cools, eyes drifting off over his head. When he looks over his shoulder there's nobody there. "...but it does make a bad legacy _much_ worse."

Well, that's not good. He's an Avery, which means he's kind of famous already. Jackson takes one of her hands, swinging it from side-to-side idly as he considers. ...Well. He wants a good one. He gets good grades. He gets clean edges every time he plays surgery with his clay, and clay is _very_ much like human flesh, in a lot of ways. He's the fastest on his baseball team. He's funny and always makes his classmates laugh. He could have one of the best around, really. His mother doesn't bring up any of it, though. She just keeps staring at something on the ground over there, and he has to swing her hand a few more times to bring her back.

"...Mom?"

"What is it, baby?"

"Do I have a legacy?" Then he remembers. "A good one?"

His glowing thoughts of a day at the park or a hike up the trail shrivel into a little ball. Well, now he has an angry grandfather _and_ a sad mother to figure out. Jackson opens his mouth to say he's sorry when her eyes glitter awfully, like a raincloud finally about to pop, then closes it when she just shakes her head and reaches over to pluck at one of his curls.

"...I hope so."

***

"You know you won't keel over without that morning coffee, right?"

"I will without _this_ coffee. It's kind of your fault for introducing me to it."

Of all the days for him to sleep in, it's on a Sunday so perfect it could be a painting in the Sistine Chapel. Jackson chuckles when Maggie lets out an exasperated sputter and slumps a shoulder against the doorframe.

"One more go." He assures, tapping on the machine and leaning forward for a telling noise. "I promise."

"I'm holding you to that." A soft _thunk_. Temple on the doorframe, now. "It's _so_ nice out..."

It is a damn fine day, and he hasn't even stepped foot outside. He woke up with his head clear, heart clearer, and the crook in his neck has _finally_ melted away. The next crook in the trail of life was still a little ways away, too, enough that he can soak in the illusion of it not arriving at all. A hot mug of coffee would've been the perfect touch, but, well. The espresso maker is letting out another creaking grind, as if it's still waking up, too, and he has no choice but to finally give up the ghost. They'll have to hit up a coffee stand on the way back because, despite a life always on-the-go, he can't stand chugging a good drink.

It's just such a waste.

"I think we're going to have to read this espresso machine its burial rites..." Jackson mutters, squinting behind it to see a frayed wire or something spilling. "It's not up to the task. Hasn't been for a week..." He frowns and leans back up. "...Maggie?"

"Come _on_ , the day's running off without us!" Her voice grows distant as she heads down the stairs. "Last one down's a rotten egg!" There's a brief pause, then the _creak_ of the downstairs gate opening. " _...Or whatever!_ "

Or whatever, indeed. Jackson gives the machine a fond pat, then grabs his keys and hoodie before bolting out of the open door.

" _I'm already rotting, by the sounds of it!_ "

The morning weather is as crisp as an apple. Summer's not quite out, fall's not quite here. It rained all last night, the dirt still huffing its last petrichor to mingle with the scents of a city waking up in puffs of gas and daily pastry batches. The sun shines as bright as his soul, for all his mind's wanderings, and he swears he can feel the dappled rays on his fingertips. Someone says hello to him on the sidewalk -- , no recognition, just a nice morning greeting -- and he returns it. For all his increasingly complicated feelings on Seattle...it was still a place he'd rather wake up to more often than not.

Jackson shoves his arms through the hoodie sleeves, then pauses when tugging his head through so he doesn't clothesline a pole. Maggie's several paces ahead and jogging in place by the intersection, ponytail a bouncy cloud.

"Hurry up, sleepyhead." She flashes him a smile. "Light's almost green."

Like a damn energizer bunny. It's living with her he gets an idea of what it's like to be around _him_. Jackson appreciates her flushed cheeks a moment before asking:

"Race you to the top of that staircase?" He bobs his chin. "The one leading to the park."

She doesn't look at him, but the challenging square to her shoulders is already a good enough hint.

"Uh-uh. You're trying to make up for the fact you hit snooze on the alarm." The light turns green. She promptly trots across the street. He follows close behind. " _Twice_."

" _Nooo..._ I'm trying to show off how much youthful energy I got left." Jackson slips between the shoulders of a couple, then increases pace, getting ahead just enough to spin around in front of her and jog backwards. "Maybe my ass in these sweats?"

Maggie lifts up her chin, mouth twisting as she struggles to reign back a smile. Just the victory he was hoping for. Jackson turns and speeds up his jog again, anyway, because he knows she'll follow. They pass a cluster of tourists at the bus plaza, then several restaurants with brunch lines forming past the windows, winding their way toward the park where there's less human traffic. The second they round the fountain Maggie _zips_ past him. Jackson barks a laugh. Always on time.

" _Hey,_ it's not a proper race, you didn't agree- _"_ He tries, laughing as he books it. Maggie waves an arm.

"Oh, _no_ , we're racing!"

It's not an easy task, attempting to hit a full run while circumventing other joggers, baby strollers and the occasional weekend office worker. He loudly hums the Rocky theme when they finally go up the long flight of concrete stairs, struggling to maintain his tune when Maggie joins in with a raucous bassline of her own. Another three blocks and they're a sweaty, huffing, puffing mess. More her than him, anyway. She's no couch potato, no, but she still didn't hit the gym _nearly_ as often as he did. Jackson pulls a few arrogant stretches while she hunkers down and catches her breath on an unoccupied bench.

"I..." Maggie leans on her knees and wheezes, curls drooping. "... _win_."

"The battle, yes." He stretches up, long enough to let his stomach peek out from under his hoodie. He accepts another victory when she indulges in a stare. "The _war_ , though..."

"The war will be won on your impeccably sculpted thighs." She huffs, rubbing sweat from her forehead. " _Phew._ I think I've earned a latte."

Small businesses come and go, but this is one coffee stand he hopes stays around for the long haul. It's a grounding element that's stubbornly stuck in the background of his blurry life, as much apart of him as a scalpel. It'd been there when he got promoted to the head of the Avery Foundation, and he'd treated a few co-workers to drinks to try and keep casual what had felt like a betrayal of a better world. It'd been there after he left Maggie and wandered into a hell of his own making, a quad shot Americano all that stood between him and too much sleep. Jackson's thoughts flit like loose ribbons as he leans against Maggie's side beneath the little coffee stand's overhang, currently debating which flavor to add under her breath. He brushes fingers against her wrist. She squeezes them.

"Hope I don't fall out of practice with our machine out of commission." He murmurs against her hair. He watches the barista wriggle in a leaf into the foam, enjoying the after-workout buzz settling into his shoulders. "I still want to draw photorealistic hearts into your cappuccinos."

"Once you quit Grey-Sloan and redirect some of the retirement money you'll have all the time in the world to perfect your home latte technique." She assures.

The day flickers a little, at that. There's still the warm morning sun against his back and the feel of her thumb stroking the scars on his knuckles, but her words loop heavily.

"I can see it now." Maggie drops a ten into the tip jar, then spreads out her hand and moves it in an arc. "'Jackson Avery, local doctor, programmer and award-winning barista.'"

His mouth laughs. His soul doesn't. Maggie knows him as well as she knows hearts, because she stops, always on time. Her brow crinkles.

"...Hey." She shifts a little to face him better, tilting her head down to see him better through the overhang's shade. "It's-"

"No, no, you're right." He straightens up and makes a gripping motion with his hands. "I'll, uh, do latte art that looks like a gurney. Create an entire portfolio."

His stomach twists when she just...stares at him, joke deflating faster than a punctured balloon. Maggie moves her hand up from his to gently take his elbow, rubbing a slow, affectionate circle with her thumb.

"...It's okay to be nervous." She moves back down to his hand, lifting it up to kiss his fingers in what might look silly to anyone else watching. He only has eyes for her. "It's a lot on your plate right now. It's going to feel like a lot even after it's over, so...it's okay."

Jackson sighs through his nose. He pulls her close and presses his nose into her hair. A few people glance their way, but he doesn't care.

"...Okay."

Maggie gets a pastry with her caramel hazelnut latte. She justifies it by noting she'll burn all the calories on the way back, which is a fair enough argument for a lazy Sunday. He's fine with a flavored Americano, but not with her attempt to pay. Jackson pushes her wallet back in her hands and swipes his card, because he'll single-handedly fund this little coffee stand on principle, then discreetly pinches her butt just to get her to make that squeaky sound.

" _You._ " She hisses, turning away so she can't see him smiling. Jackson hooks a chaste arm around her shoulders, sipping his drink and enjoying another victory.

They drink mostly in silence on the walk back through the park, fingers knit together as they stroll where there are less people. They're _just_ able to catch the view between the fluffy trees and buildings. The ocean's a thin blue stripe today, glittering happily beneath a post-storm sky that was expected to rage for another two days. He can only see one boat out, a speck of white crawling through the twinkle; Maggie idly comments they should try boating again when there are fewer meteorites out. Her eyes have a glitter all their own when he kisses her cheek, her ear, her hair. Everywhere he can reach.

"It's a date."

Every sunny day has a cloud or two. Unbidden those thoughts return, somewhere in the middle of Maggie sharing her thoughts on Zola's recent ballet recital, no doubt fueled by caffeine and his burst of energy from the workout. No matter how hard he tries, the spiral pulls him in.

It's a whole lot of future screams and long nights. Changes long overdue. Risks that feel worse than death. He has to hyperfocus on the warm beat of Maggie's pulse to stay below his threshold, because...it'll happen. It'll _all_ happen. Slicing through life's minutia of details has always been one of his best skills and he wouldn't be the man he is today if he couldn't predict the worst _extremely_ well. It's just that life slices him right back, and damn it. He's still healing. Most of all, he _wants_ to heal. His stay at the ward taught him the genuine desire was the most important step, but also far from the only thing that mattered.

Jackson's shoulders tense with the weight of it all. Healing was one thing, but healing while still being cut...it's a wretched challenge that stretches out before him. About as impenetrable, and deceptive, as the ocean just within view. He _wants_ to rise to it, to them _all_ , and he has to believe that hunger will be powerful enough to get him through, because what he's up against is still like nothing he's ever-

"-like Rocky."

His damn mind and its clutter. He never realizes he's zoned out until he's slammed back in. Jackson blinks down at her.

"Sorry, what?"

"You should scream like Rocky." Maggie repeats with a firm nod. "You're getting lost in that-" She waves a hand around her head. "-cloud of yours. It's not good for you to keep it inside. Just air it all out."

Jackson rolls his eyes, chuckling when she bumps against his shoulder insistently. If he did _that_ the city would probably blow over like a paper mock-up.

"Just like that...?"

"Just like that."

Maggie presses a hand to his cheek. It hurts a little, and that's how he knows it's part of the healing, too.

"Here, I'll start."

She opens her mouth...then snaps it shut and beckons for them to go a little further into the _empty_ part of the park. Permanently thoughtful, this woman. When they get to an isolated spot she lets go of his hand and takes a few steps back, covering her ears for good measure. Jackson takes in deep a breath...then sputters, rubbing a hand over his hair.

"...Seriously?"

He was raised to be seen, not heard, and that's an old habit that has taken its sweet time dying. She just puts her hands on her hips and waits. She'll wait all day long, judging by _that_ look. So he does it. He takes in a deep breath, then lets out a bellow that scatters the birds from the trees, because he's done avoiding what he needs to do, no matter how impossible it seems on the surface. Maggie grimaces happily, then bursts out laughing, giving him a tight hug that says so much more than words ever could.

It is okay to be nervous. Even for him and all he has. He just hopes the wisdom will stick.

***

_I worked as hard as I did to make sure you have the choice to be different, Jackson._

The glass returns at exactly 11:30 a.m.

It still tends to, even a year after his commitment, and the biggest sign he's made progress is how much more quickly he adapts. He can hardly feel the press of the professor's hand when he walks into his last class of the day and introduces himself, but that's fine. The words register, more or less, and he finds a spot over by the window where the light spills in. He imagines it melting his frost a little ahead of schedule and gets comfortable, hanging up his messenger bag on the chair backing and setting his nearly empty coffee cup to the side. A quick note into his phone is a good enough timestamp for now. Symptom and time and place.

_Be smarter than the rest. Safer than the rest. That's what an Avery does. We never know, or give, anything less than the best._

The students filing into this one skew _much_ younger. He's not sure anyone here is over thirty. Jackson holds back a smile, thinking of Malania's struggle with his visual age. Young _and_ old at the same time, she said. It's probably the bags under his eyes, because he takes damn good care of his skin. That, and black don't crack.

"Hey, man. This seat taken?" A voice beside him asks. Jackson nods idly. Eye contact is... _strange_ , through the glass. It's best to just seem lost in thought.

"Nope, go ahead."

_You're more privileged than most. More than me. Pretending you know struggle is like a fish pretending it knows how to fly._

It's a small class, at least. Not too cramped. Reminds him of growing up in private school, really, where there were hardly more than a dozen children per room and the entire institution like a large family (and more so than his own, in many ways).

"You new here, too?" There's a pause. "Sorry, I meant...like, to the college."

Locs and a baseball hat. A slouch in a wheelchair. No matter how many visual elements he pins down, his voice still sounds like it's coming from the other room. He _wants_ to say something. Truly. He just won't be able to with the charming ease he used to, and what good was that, even in this new, imperfect reality of his? First impressions were still the world's currency. He'd rather awkward than awful.

"...Yeah." Jackson answers, pretending to be distracted with his phone. The man nods, air as uneasy as a loose floorboard, and turns back to his station.

_I need you here. With Richard. With Harriet. With me._

The programming teacher is younger than he usually sees, too, but not at all surprising considering the relatively new and dynamic nature of the field. Her approach is a whipsmart polar opposite to the leisurely approach of his 3D Design teacher and the bone dry affect of his VR Development professor. It's all a lot to remember. Just like before, except not at all. A sliver of agitation etches through the confidence, distant enough not to overwhelm, but far too close. Jackson rubs at his stubble, freshly trimmed because the temptation to pull and pick was still strong so many months later.

_How could you even say that to me?_

"So. Let's start this off by laying down some fundamentals, because they'll be what carries you through what will be a lot of numbers, a lot of double-checking and a _lot_ of triple-checking." She's half as tall as he is and speaks in a confident, blunt tumble. Kind of like Bailey, he notes with a fond twist of his heart. " _Why_ are you in programming?"

Voices bubble in his peripheries, ebbing and flowing just within the bounds of comprehension. Jackson rubs his palm up and down the rough grain of his pant leg, grounding himself one pass at a time. One student says they want a job that pays more than their bullshit full-time at a manufacturing plant, preferably with fewer missing fingers. That gets a scatter of laughter. Another says math is, ironically, the _only_ thing they're really good at. Another scatter. The last to speak before his turn is the young man next to him, disaffected posture a sharp contrast to how his eyes stick to the whiteboard.

"It's good pay." He reaches up to scratch beneath his cap. "I might as well."

Jackson doesn't stand up. He's tall enough as it is, but it doesn't really matter. Nobody recognizes him, even when he shares his work history. It's _wonderful_.

"...I want to add some new perspective to the medical VR industry. Show a perspective that isn't usually seen so the best of the best can _do_ their best." He finishes, shrugging. "Students. Interns. It's a little bit ambitious, but I've never known anything else."

A few students shuffle around in their seats to look at him better. The guy next to him stares openly. He wills down the temperamental need to pretend he's part of the furniture.

" _Huh._ That's pretty neat." His professor smiles crookedly and gives him a firm nod. "I'll look forward to seeing that in practice, Jackson."

They go over basic vocabulary, with bookmarks for essential reading in their primary textbook, and take time to hash out the details of their first assignment. The last half hour has them wrapping up with a brief and surprisingly funny video on the history of C++. Nobody talks to him, save for one request to borrow a pen. The glass leaves, reality bleeding back in somewhere in-between making his way through a sandwich and reviewing his notes, and he's content.

***

_You'll change your mind, Jackson. You'll change your mind, because what you're giving up is everything I have ever worked on for you. An empire, a family, a secure future for Harriet. Call me, as soon as you can, and let's just talk this out. Just you and me, Mom, 8:45 p.m._

_Jackson, I know you're still up. You've never gone to bed before ten. Stop this rebellion and just, please, talk to me., Mom, 10:37 p.m._

_Jackson, I'll always be your mother. I'll always love you. Please, **please**. Don't do this, Mom, 11:11 p.m._

***

"Great to see you, Dr. Avery."

"Hey, Avery! How's the kid?"

"I was going to grab some coffee, Jackson, if you want one."

He's going to miss this place.

There's no groundbreaking surgery on his next-to-last day at Grey-Sloan. No rush of incoming trauma from the tragedy of the day, perhaps a five-hour surgery with a full gallery. Just a consultation for a minor sleep apnea case, then a simple enough patch-up of a burnt hand from a forgetful elderly woman living alone. None of the distractions he needs are here. His send-off earlier today was _one_ thing, but there was something... _fateful_ about an invigorating last day. That had been Mercy-West, just an hour before he jumped on the bus and headed to the hospital that would carve a statue from his marble.

It was a heated debate with three of his peers. They'd been trying to choose between surgery or amputation for a biker that crashed through the window of an office, mangling his leg in the process...

"It was great working with you, Jackson. You ever think of coming back and doing a few surgeries, for old time's sake?"

"Oh, thank goodness you're moving on to greener pastures, Avery. Now _my_ face can be in promotional materials."

"Don't forget about us, all right?"

Every new comment brings with it a nostalgia that technically hasn't arrived at port. Several times throughout the day he pretends the world to be just...a _few_ years back. That he's a little younger and going through a comfortably average-yet-not-so-average day, trading jabs with the other interns in-between bites of an apple. That he's getting a coffee with Meredith, Alex and Maggie to enjoy in the cafeteria, or perhaps leaving their conversation to go have a chat with Link outside while he did his fresh air squats. A side-effect of the glass pushing him away from reality was pushing him into fantasy. At one point, the past almost feels _real_.

It's a bad idea, he realizes far too late, when Bailey stops him for a talk in the hallway and he's jolted back to depressing reality with all the grace of an elbow hitting a table corner.

"It's going to be damn hard to find a replacement for you." Her tone was well-known for puncturing _most_ lofty fantasies, but her smile is the fondest he's ever seen it. "You followed in Mark's footsteps incredibly. Hell, you even surpassed him in some areas. You at least knew when to keep your mouth shut." She winces. "Well. Most of the time."

"I hope so." He stares at the bouncing reflections in the floor as a pair of interns shuffle past. "It's the least I could do."

"Hey. None of that. You'll do _great_." She slaps his arm, just as fondly, and gives him a little shake that rattles the rest of him to little pieces. "I'm...proud of you." She waits until he's looking down at her, where he can see all the years they shared in the brown of her eyes. "I remember each year like the back of my hand. Every month, if I'm being honest. You've come...so damn _far_ , Jackson."

Over a decade, Jackson realizes distantly as she squeezes his shoulders as best she can with her height. Over a decade, and he's never hugged her until now.

It sinks in fully after his last consult (and de facto transfer) with a lip filler patient. Like a blanket settling over his head, muffling his good sense and turning his heartbeat into a rabbity drum. Jackson's hands shake when he puts the tablet away and confers with the receptionist, double-checking they got their schedule and insurance information correct. He grabs an apple at the cafeteria and heads to the (hopefully empty) lunchroom, exchanging a few inspiring words with two passing interns before slipping inside. He shuts the door, double-checks the window, then presses his back to it.

...Maybe he shouldn't do this.

This...was his _home_. Hell, more of a home than the Avery empire had ever been, physically or emotionally. He's gone from a medical student to a plastics _star_ , raising the bar for what constitutes the safest, most effective and most innovative in modern Western plastic surgery. He's repaired the violence, then survived it. He's seen the hospital roof cave in. He survived a mass shooting while simultaneously saving the life of a friend _and_ another co-worker. He rescued a little girl from an overturned bus mere _seconds_ away from blowing. So many of the good things he's done, the justifications that make him take another breath and defy the urge to snip it all to black, come from _here_.

Jackson crushes his eyes shut and grinds his thumbnail into the apple skin, trying to puncture through the muscle memory of digging his fingers into the skin of a car accident victim. Pulling it together again under the watchful gaze of his mentor. Something sane. Something _right_.

Through the dark he can see the fresh-faced Jackson Avery from Mercy-West, smug grin as much of a uniform as the orange scrubs, observing the hustle and bustle of the hospital from the glass bridge overseeing the main lobby. It's a clean-shaven ghost with a thousand-watt smile, a phantom suit he once wore that's now collecting dust in a closet he's considered sautering shut for good. Jackson swallows at the lump in his throat, feels the haunting of that younger, happier, more deluded man pulsing closer. Lost in studies. Lost in parties. Lost in what everyone _else_ wanted from him. Lights, camera, action.

He could step into it. Like stepping into the light. Let it wash over him, strap on the plastic smile and the golden ideals, and keep him here forever.

He watches it. How the Jackson Avery from all that time ago turns at the sound of his mother's voice. How he furrows a frown that's hastily smoothed out again, straightens shoulders that had started to hunch their truth. He'd step into _that_ , too. The old resentment. The existential fear. The pathological urge to roll over and please, even as it ground down on his joy until there wasn't even dust left to mock. Jackson's eyes flicker open, the illusory palinopsia as vivid as any curtain, lost to one of many humiliating memories. This time of his mother's hospital presentation. Where he'd shooed away Lexie for the weekend, just to be spared a little goddamn _judgement_.

From Fox, to Avery, to Fox again. An emotional, then litigious development he'd been so _proud_ to present to her alongside Meredith. He's only ever been an Avery, though. It's in his blood.

His eyes close again. He leans his head back against the wall, the rest breaking through the dam, so fast and so blurry it's like they belong to someone else, even though there's no glass to be found, and, _God_ , he needs it right now. He'd wanted to save the world, because he was told to, until he saved a life in the emergency room and felt the righteous joy of continued existence beating at his fingertips. He'd been a flirtatious, arrogant punk with family legacy on the mind, until his real family emerged in fits and starts. Grouchy Karev and suave Ben and blunt Bailey. Practical Meredith and patient Webber and cocky Mark.

Maggie...and her everything.

His heart flutters with it. Aches with it in a rolling thump-and-pump, like it'd turn into a tragic surgery-to-be, if it could. Jackson holds a hand to his face and breathes through the burn crawling up his nose. Oh, he doesn't _want_ to go. This is his home.

He's...

_"A toast to Jackson Avery!"_

_A few dozen glasses raise. Smiles flash. Eyes glitter. It's more than he feels he deserves, but that's such a miserable thought for something so tender. It's not easy to get this many doctors, nurses and interns in one place. Not with everything on their plates._

_"A toast to Grey-Sloan's best." He says, raising his own. "I couldn't have done it without any of you."_

...a doctor.

He's a doctor who's saved lives. He'll always be a doctor, even when he jumpstarts his new beginning. He's not a failure. He's a loving father. He's not a failure. He's a doting boyfriend. He's not a _failure_. Barnes told him to find his facts, these were his, his happiness and his distance and his healing, and he repeats them to himself, a ceaseless mutter to etch into the panic static. It doesn't swim over him like it used to, no, he's gotten _better at this_ , but it's still too thick for comfort. It stays gathered in the close corners of his mind, not tamed so much as soothed.

He thinks about the lives he'll save and the lives he'll nurture, in another way and another place.

Through complex programming strings instead of knives and suction. He thinks of his gift for Maggie, just about done processing and something that will make her eyes sparkle into his very favorite black diamonds. He thinks of Harriet and her cheeks dusted with pink after a run through the grass. He thinks of Ben, and how the man changed careers more than he changed clothes. He thinks of Bailey...and the pride in her eyes. Jackson chuckles to himself and wipes his eyes, idly glad he can register the sensation at all.

He nibbles at the rest of his apple and thinks of his life. Of how much he wants to live it.

***

_missed call: 7:39 p.m._

_missed call: 7:44 p.m._

_missed call: 8:03 p.m._

***

"One of these days you're going to end up in a very _weird_ career field and you're going to say, 'You know...Jackson told me so.'"

Ben laughs, tossing in another almond and moving the tin out of reach when he holds a hand out for it.

" _Yeeeah_ , I don't think that'll be the case. Last time I thought about how you 'told me so' was when we were at that party and I got a dare to drink three cans of beer upside down. Got me an extra $50, like you promised, but at what cost?"

Jackson slaps a hand over his eyes. Not even being buzzed could blur _that_ image. It feels like a thousand years since he attended parties, co-workers or otherwise.

"Why do you even remember that." He attempts another swipe at the tin. Ben doesn't even look his way. "But the point stands. I told you then, I'm telling you now. Today is prime mental health material. A way to do good and _feel_ good."

"Uh-huh. Enjoy that egg on your face, Jackson. Show me a little respect and I'll give you a cashew."

They round a corner with a vendor calling out soft taco specials. That would be a good lunch idea. Jackson pulls out his phone when it buzzes.

_off I go to spill my secrets and come out a reformed woman. wanna break the pizza clause again and get a double pepperoni and a salad tonight? Got an amazing case today and I want to celebrate as much as I can under HIPAA, Maggie, 12:15 p.m._

God, he could go for _two_ pepperonis. Make that tacos and pizza, then. He's in the middle of texting a reply when they round another corner and suddenly hit the back of the line.

"Quite a crowd." Ben muses, standing on his toes to see further down. "Hope you brought your A-game."

"More than that." Jackson stuffs his phone in his pocket. He'll just call her on lunch. Hearing her voice was better than any drug he's taken. "Hope you remember how to suture."

There's already a _long_ queue leading down the sidewalk, some sitting and others standing with a shoulder on the wall. The moment they step inside the warehouse through the back door it's an organized chaos, the chatter of volunteer medics and patients amplified by the wide space and lack of furnishings. It's hardly a clinic, but that's the point. It's a personal last stand of the most low-key kind: using his medical skills to quietly (and affordably) help those in need for a just few days more.

Like he plans to do from here on out, of course, just...differently.

"Thank you _so_ much for coming." The head nurse is an older woman who's seen more than her fair share, he can see that much already. Ben's the one who did the Zoom call, but he's familiar down to his bones with that look in her eyes. "You'll both have to share that gurney and table over there, if that's okay."

"No problem." They say in unison. That gets a tired smile out of her.

Jackson hunches down on the foldout chair and unshoulders his bag, his face settling into the familiar calm that always activates amongst the medical tang and clatter of gurneys. He enjoys the muscle memory of setting up all the basics within arm's reach. Doubly so when he disinfects. Ben leans over the little portable scrub station across from him.

"You don't need to worry about falling out of practice. If the boys get a skinned knee, I'll call you over." He says, scrubbing enthusiastically. "Just so you can taste that sweet nostalgia." Then, raging dork that he is, makes a phone shape with his soap sud covered hand. "Uh, paging Dr. Avery. Yeah? My boy just took a hard fall. I think the medical term is 'ate shit'."

Jackson bites back a grin, maintaining his easy demeanor as what appear to be three volunteer nurses walk by.

"But...I thought _you_ were a doctor." He pauses, then holds up a finger. "Wait, no...you're a firefighter." He pauses _again_ , enjoying Ben rolling his eyes. "No! No, you're a full-time husband, father and board-certified clown."

"All right, all right, get your tools out." Ben huffs. "Can I call you Jackass on the clock?"

"Nope." He snaps on a glove, then another. "That's unprofessional."

It's a wonderful series of minor and moderate issues that follows over the next two hours, God _bless_ the urgent care system.

He gets a working mother who's afraid a large blister could be something worse (just needs draining, disinfecting and a good bandage). Right after he's sat down with a skinny kid with a stubborn cough and a very worried father wondering if it's part of the growing airborne virus that's been reported in a few states (seems to be asthma, needs a follow-up to be sure). The most time-consuming job is a nasty scrape from a teenager that might've gotten into trouble, if the tattered skin and amount of dirt on the wound is any indication. He's given a tetanus shot, just to be on the safe side, and Jackson puts his very best work into the stitches.

"Am I gonna have a scar?" The kid asks, squinting a ruddy nose down at his work. Jackson indulges and takes his time pulling up the thread to snip, enjoying the way the boy's eyes trail after in gory fascination.

"You let that heal properly and it'll be _pretty_ small."

"Aw." He scuff a moody heel on the floor. "I wanted a _big_ scar."

Jackson scoffs. He said similar things, at his age, though he's not about to encourage him with story time. The father reminds his son to thank him, then thanks him himself, eyes hard with a future reprimand. Ben chuckles fondly over the leg he's working on.

"Kids. You'd think all that time spent on their phones would reduce the bumps and scrapes, but..." He shakes his head, finishing up his wrap job with a satisfied smile. "There we go. Ah, it's good to be doing this again. Haven't lost my touch."

" _Sooo_...what are we saying today?" Jackson cups the air around his ear, careful not to touch until he's disinfected. "Something about being told..."

"All right, all right." Ben sighs and pointedly avoids eye contact. "You told me so."

Jackson gives him a fond nudge with his shoulder. Ben may have had a point about 'ripping the proverbial band-aid off', but his point was just a little bit sharper. As he disinfects his tools and preps for the next patient he can't help but think of his daughter. Of all _her_ future injuries. At four years-old she was a curious middleground between mischievous and cautious. It was a clash of titans: the whims of a happy, healthy child mitigated by skilled doctors who always looked at life carefully and closely. A glance at Ben and he sees the same distant, thoughtful look. Thinking of his boys, too. He knows it.

A mother and her two children walk into the clinic a few minutes later, one of them crying snot down the front of their shirt. Ben settles quickly into dad mode, waving at them with extra cheer. Jackson shares his thoughts out loud _just_ beneath the roar of the proceedings, keeping a rolling narrative from his mind to his mouth to clear up the clutter as it threatens to roll in. To his pleasant surprise his shoulders actually start to relax. It's nearly as effective as a Rocky scream. He sends Maggie and her endless well of wisdom a fond thought her way.

She's got something _big_ on her plate. He doesn't know how to describe it, but he knows it's monumental, somehow. Despite her confidence, he needs to send her a few extra cheers on the sidelines.

"-was thinking about it while at class the other day." Jackson continues, tossing his used gloves into the bin and hunching back over the scrub station. "How to make the most of what I'm doing, in ways I'm not used to. It's incredible how much of my life has felt like it was on auto-pilot. Like I'm an android or something."

Ben nods, a vague little shift of the head that doesn't match the rest of him.

"Some things you...don't want to make the most out of." He sends his patients off, then throws away his gloves and snaps open a box of bandages. "In any way."

He knows what he means. Scars can linger, despite one's best work.

"...I know." Jackson studies the tense lines around the man's eyes, honing in on the crow's feet that weren't so pronounced just a few months ago. "But what else are you supposed to do?"

Another person walks into the clinic, then another. He'll greet them in a second. Jackson reaches over to take Ben's shoulder, squeezing softly when his good friend is unable to break his gaze with the floor.

"I don't...want to give you some shallow little aesop. I just know that these things...make everything so much clearer, if you let them." Jackson's voice lowers. "If you don't let them..."

His friend rolls his mouth slowly, dark gaze downcast and full of swollen rain. This trip wasn't _just_ to put off his departure from Grey-Sloan. It was also to get Ben out of that cloud he's been in for the past few months. It was a very personal guilt he felt over what happened. That maybe he shouldn't have been _quite_ so excited to go through with a pregnancy, if maybe a more lukewarm response would've turned Bailey to another option. That late night phone conversation they shared that sweltering Friday afternoon has sat in the back of his mind ever since. It was a good start, but...not quite enough.

"...then you find God?" Ben finishes, carefully. Jackson shrugs.

"Well, that's the thing with pain. You'll always find something to do with it. It's just a matter of what."

An old-school R&B song starts up in the far corner of the warehouse. It's a little tinny, probably coming out of someone's phone, but it's the perfect touch. A few people around him visibly relax in that way he can just...feel. Ben rolls one of the remaining clean rags between his hands, the pain on his face starting to bloom.

"I guess. I guess, man. I...I just wish I could take that pain from her." His sigh shakes. "I just wish..."

Then a sound goes off. Something sharp and echoing. Jackson's skin goes cold. He knows that sound-

" _Get down!_ "

His heart sticks in his throat, the slap sting of the floor sharp and surprising against his palms-

-what?

_What's-_

"Fuck, Jackson, get behind the desk, now-"

-happening? The dozens of nurse and patient and child heads milling around have all vanished, huddled to the floor or out the building. Another sound he knows cracks the air, then another metallic one that makes what feels like his entire skeleton fold out of his skin, but it's not a pop of death this time. A gurney's hit the floor, scattered a hundred tools and bloody bandages to bounce all the way to the door, metal rain stinging him full of holes. His body is bent at an irregular angle, his eyes following a roll of paper towels as it follows gravity, slowing to a stop only when it catches on something red and wet-

"No, _no, no_ -"

Owen? No. It's not a man in his prime with ginger hair that hits the ground, but he falls just the same, goes limp just the same, so it might just be him, anyway.

"-ckson, we need to _go_."

His shoulder hurts. Why does it hurt? His vision swims, from feet to floor to...oh. Ben. Ben's squeezing it. Shaking it, whispering under his breath with his eyes somewhere else.

_Go where?_

One, two, three on the floor. Huddled. Just one standing, a gray sliver in front of the bright square of the open clinic door. He realizes, vaguely, the glass is back. Always on time. Muffling the screams, clatter and shatter into an easy, level drone that never changes.

_But we'll die if we do._

Jackson floats up off the floor, backwards through the haze, fingers buzzing with a thousand potentials at the sight of a pale man with death in his grip. ...He's a doctor. He's here to save people, right? In whatever form it takes-

" _Jackson!_ "

He moves as if through water. When he reaches for the man's arms it's a thick sludge, too slow and too fast. They fumble inelegantly, a monotonous churning of limbs and spittle as blows connect, the pistol an omnipresent black that threatens to turn into white. Another sound snaps the air. Another. When they reach the floor it's as if they're laying down, even as a distant thought tells him he might've broken something, or many things. Jackson tries to shatter through it all, with what little room he has pinned between life and death. Rears back, leans down. Rears back, leans down. Another. Another. Another-

_another another another another another-_

-omewhere in-between a bloody tooth that bounces on the tiles and a strange weightlessness in his own leg ( _or is it his arm_ ) the gun goes skidding, scraping metal striking like a hammer and nail in his jaw, echoed by the clatter of teeth rolling, someone shrilling, wheels rolling. He saves lives, normally, but now it's all he can do to-

_Jackson, get up, get up-_

-stay awake-

_Jackson, come on. I got you. Up you go, there you go._

Help? He doesn't need help. He's a _doctor_. He's supposed to help _others_. He tries to take a step that slips. Every step turns, to the left, to the right, trying to make him go where he doesn't want to go. The face in front of him is a warm shade he knows, but he doesn't _know_ him, or why he keeps talking like if he stops the sea will sweep them away. For some reason he stops walking all of a sudden, sways as if he's in a hammock, and for some other reason he's grateful. His leg itches when he's stilled against a soft stone, but a weight pushes on him, and he can't scratch. His shoulder itches, too, and he can't scratch that, either.

_Jackson, don't move. Don't move. You're bleeding._

Muffled. Blurry. A slow swimming of voices and lights above and all around, only urgent for the instinct in his stomach that tells him so. He moves his arms, but the air is still water, sound is sand, it's all a soupy lag that makes him feel sleepy, makes him want to lay down and curl into his arms. He couldn't be more aware, though, of the hands pressing against his shoulders and the strange tugging on his leg. He's hurt, he thinks, but he doesn't feel any hurt. It's a good thing ( _again, he thinks_ ), and all that's left is to figure out where he is ( _home, maybe_ ).

_Ben, are you hurt-_

Who? Wait. No. He can't be. A sound tries to break through him, but everything is suddenly too solid. The white walls. The blue scrubs. Gentle faces with familiar cadences. Grey-Sloan, his home away from home. The home he tried to leave and was taken back to like a troublesome child. He shouldn't have left. He shouldn't have even thought about it.

_We need O neg, two units, maybe three-_

He's a good doctor. He's a good son. He's a good boyfriend. He's not a failure.

_Jackson, you're a great doctor. For now, you're a patient. It's okay. Do you hear me okay?_

The glass fades a little. The voices start to grate, scratch, his ears stinging from it and the urge to huddle back into that muffled calm overwhelming. Five fingers push him down. He follows the movement, stares up at a blonde head he knows ( _sort of_ ), and a round brown face he also knows ( _maybe_ ). It hurts his heart, suddenly, that he can't recall names, nothing but the immediate sensation of no sensation, and speaking doesn't cure it. He stutters on his vowels. They're not words, but realities, uttered impulsively, utterly immediate. Cresting to shrilling. It's starting to hurt. It's starting to _burn_. It's all starting to-

_Jackson, you're going into shock._

The glass leaves, and...

* * *

_Believe in something, because it's all you got._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm back!_
> 
> Between deadline pile-ups and the encroaching of burnout I've (incrementally) managed to get some writing done. I've been craving a little more Jaggie to top me off in this super fucktastic hell year.
> 
> You can likely already tell which aspects I'm sprinkling in from recent canon while still committing to a different direction. Bringing back characters previously forgotten. Remembering plotlines previously forgotten. It was pretty silly when Jackson got shot in season sixteen...only to have him barely react and the immediate concern be whiplashed to his nothingburger relationship. I mean...trauma from surviving a past shooting? _What_ trauma from surviving a past shooting? At least they remembered Harriet exists...
> 
> I'm also annoyed we got a crumb of Jackson consoling Ben over Bailey's miscarriage, I mean, come on, that could've fueled an entire episode on its own-
> 
> ...Anyway. This is the last part in the 'golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone' canon divergent Jaggie series. For those coming in fresh, this series was released intentionally out-of-order, _but_ has a concrete timeline and now has the proper order in the description. I originally had this fic drafted at seven or eight chapters, but after more writing and editing it's been cranked up to _eleven_. This one's going to feel a little different than 'signal flare', too: whereas that fic had more momentum of getting out of a hard place, this one's focusing more on how to keep from sliding back in. Triggering content, again, will be in the tags.
> 
> Now that _that's_ out of the way...
> 
> ...enjoy!


	2. intertwined, side-by-side

**Song Inspiration:** "Walk With Me" by Rolmex (ft. Sofia Sanc & Yruama)

_let it go, let it go_

_and walk with me_

_'cause I can pick you up when you're down, will you let me, please_

~

_i don't mind letting myself go_

_as long as you can walk with me_

_i'll walk for you_

*

_Attachment can seem both a blessing and a curse, can't it?_

_It means you have someone to pick you up when you're down. It also means you can be weighed down, whether by the bad decisions of others or by pure, awful happenstance. Some choose to forgo this entirely and weather the winds of loneliness. They dig out every excuse in the book to strengthen the journey. That they'll be hurt if they get too close to someone, so they nip a potential friendship or romantic relationship in the bud before it's had a chance to bloom. That people don't truly love them, so they should just spare themselves the disappointment. That it's better to never love at all instead of love and lose._

_There's no up without a down. No good without a bad. It's worth a little pain if that means you can have a little good in the whirlwind hurt._

* * *

"Hemophilia at so _young_ an age..."

" _That's not even the worst of it._ "

It's a line right out of a classic blockbuster. The kind heard in a movie trailer desperate to rake through the dissonant boredom of the average media-saturated viewer. Maggie nearly drops her drink when he _further_ elaborates on what exactly makes this case such a showstopper. She thanks her cat-like reflexes when she snags the latte by the lid and snaps it right back onto the counter.

"Oh, no. The liver, too? That's just...awful. Fascinating on a medical level, yes, but _awful_."

" _Our hematologist said the same thing._ "

No kidding. It seems some things were truly universal: being a genius leading one-of-a-kind advances in heart technology doesn't dampen the shock of what biology can do, because what kind of doctor would she be if she stopped feeling? Pac North may finally be turning around with its new funding, but it still wasn't quite staffed with the people it needed to pull off surgeries like this. It's a shame. Alex would be a welcome presence by her side here. When she repeats, it's more to cement that what she's hearing is real, and the consequence of what could happen if she fails.

" _I had to double-check, too. This is a one in one hundred million occurrence. It's not something you'll likely replicate in your lifetime-_ "

"-but I'm not here for that. I'm here to _create_ a lifetime." She straightens her shoulders. "I'll do it."

" _Just what I wanted to hear._ " Not a shred of hesitation. " _I'll contact Bailey and confirm you're on board._ "

Then he hangs up and she's left in an existential fog thicker than a Seattle dawn. It's a potential miracle or supreme failure floating in the balance right now, given a fighting chance through a quick phonecall on a sunny Monday. What a thing, this living business. Maggie clicks the phone off and takes a moment to center herself, closing her eyes like Sabi does when she's counting her palpitations. Here comes another tsunami to the head.

It's going to be an interesting wave to ride already...she can tell.

***

A doctor's room rarely has anything anyone wants to hear.

It was the first thing she realized at a very young age when she was taken to the clinic for confirmation on chicken pox and was told her itchy red bumps would get worse before they get better. Oh, little Maggie had been so _frustrated_. The second she went home she attempted, quite nobly, to summon her very best surgical instruments to cure the illness a few days ahead of schedule (Lady The Stethescope and Manilow The Thermometer, respectively). While it didn't work, it was just another drop in the bucket of a little girl who wanted to heal the world.

That check-up with a nurse had been quite mundane. As mundane as all the ones that came before. A confirmation on a blood test, a physical, a quick walk-in vaccination, they're all simple things to confirm that normal can _continue_ as normal. A doctor, though, is the point where a problem has eased out of a familiar territory toward the area of no return. That awful, heartless realm of possibility that doesn't listen to emotion or reason. When that case of chicken pox transformed into a case of shingles several years later that had her nearly suffering _nerve damage_ , well...the contrast was clear.

She wanted to be the world's best doctor with the feel of a nurse's office: someone who could approach something bombastic with the feeling that the seeming impossible could _just get fixed_ , no big deal.

"It's nice to meet you." This is why she always smiles her brightest. It's the least she can do being life's messenger. "I'm Maggie Pierce. I'll be your doctor and primary point of contact." She nods to Parker, who puts on a small smile and folds his hands behind his back. "While Bailey's overseeing the case, Parker's my assistant. If I'm not available, he's your second point of contact."

It's easy to tell when someone's been in this doctor's limbo, too. The young woman before her is a mousy type, olive skin a sour yellow from what could be little sun and thin ankles pressed together in a meager attempt to push back the cold. Her eyes skirt along every inch of the room except for her, hands clutched over a pregnant stomach that juts aggressively off her thin frame. Maybe it's jumping the gun a little, but she can't help but think of past patients. Ones who found themselves in the hospital again and again, lost in a bad cycle for one reason or another. As such, _not_ the type to confess important details or feel comfortable without a little extra help.

"Rose is a beautiful name." She offers kindly, when she doesn't speak and just picks at her nailbeds. "Same as my grandmother's on my mother's side. My boyfriend's good friend also has a sister name Rosalind."

Rose's heavy eyes finally scroll up to her.

"This supposed to be the conversation starter?" She mutters, scrubbing at a particularly thick spot of dirt.

"My...attempt at one, yes." Maggie winces. "Well. Now we can officially say we got that over with."

Try as she may, the picture paints itself. Maggie 'busies' herself with her slides, even though they've been impeccably sorted since early this morning after a review with Bailey and Parker. Her brain, never very good at turning off, promptly informs her of the truth between the details: this was an unplanned pregnancy. They all had the same look, curiously enough, and it never ceased to amaze her how the same... _look_ broke through different personalities. All the while Rose twists her fingers around her left thumb, bobbing a leg and staring off at a spot on the wall. It's shame, maybe, or perhaps just the basic desire to get out of the cold environment of a new hospital.

"So...your baby has been revealed to be twins." Maggie starts. "Not just _any_ twins, but conjoined twins with hemophilia."

Rose's eyes flick away from the wall.

"Hemophilia, if you didn't know, is a blood clotting disorder. Basically keeps the blood from doing what it's supposed to do when you get cut or bruised." She clicks the button. The next slide shows a side-by-side comparison of a normal wound and a hemophilia wound. "This makes the next part rather tricky, since they're displaying signs of underdeveloped organs. Specifically, their heart and possibly their liver. This means surgery will be a must once they're out of the womb...and surgery is hard enough without adding _hemophilia_ to the list."

Parker reaches over and plucks the remote out of her hand. ...Right. That's his job. The young woman observes them both for a few moments, the bags under her eyes hammocks to a tired, dark moon of a gaze.

"So...they're dead."

Maggie resists the urge to wince now. Perhaps her latter interpretation was on the money.

"I wouldn't say that." She gestures to Parker. He pulls up a few slides, carefully marked on the left with healthier images on the right for contrast. "This is far from my first rodeo. I'm not just board-certified, I was dissecting cadavers when I was in high school."

Rose rubs at her curls, twisting one that looks about ready to pull off.

"I was dissecting frogs."

Maggie blinks. The woman stares at her for another tired moment, then looks back to her nails.

"...That was an attempt at a joke."

 _Oh._ Maggie laughs. Probably a little too hard, but, this is good. It has to be, because the next few words are never easy to say. Even being board-certified.

"Now...you're definitely right that conjoined twins survival rate is already not very high. Recent studies have found that, at the _best_ of times, they both have a twenty-five percent chance of coming out alive and making it past their first birthday. The rest of that percentage is either one being saved or both passing. Hemophilia in babies is usually not life-threatening unless they're hurt, which makes surgery a gamble on top of a gamble." She turns around and shrugs a shoulder. "Fortunately, I've built a career on defying the odds."

"That sounds like a phrase from a pamphlet." Rose mutters. Parker offers a sympathetic glance.

"It...kinda does, Dr. Pierce."

Maggie's smile is the furthest thing possible from a veneer now.

"Well, it's true. The neat thing about this is your child might have a slighter higher chance because, not only are they going to be taken care of at an award-winning hospital, they'll be part of my doubly award-winning rechargeable hearts program." She puffs up her chest and snaps her fingers. "Next slide, please."

Jade's smiling face pops onto the screen. She's posing with her school's gold trophy, frizzy ponytail puffed up with the effort of what had been a soccer match. The girl has been _thriving_ at her school, nicknamed Ironheart by all her peers and going full-speed ahead in her extracurriculars. She was now taking ballet with Zola, having become fast friends with her niece over the last several months. It was a success story that just kept giving. Even Rose can't keep the curiosity off her face as she explains in great detail exactly what the girl went through to get here and _stay_ here.

"She was pretty scared, too. She was getting a rechargeable heart after going through _three_ failed prior surgeries, which had the side-effect of weakening her body and her immune system from the stress. She'd gotten to the point of no return. Her parents backed out of the program, at one point, and even though I was bringing my very best to the table, I couldn't blame them." She folds her hands, trying not to get lost in the memory of earning their trust. "Next slide, please."

The next slide is her and Sabi, doing a peace sign by the ocean on their shared three-day weekend.

"This is my cousin. I met her the same day she had to get surgery for her failing heart, believe it or not. I was the most qualified person there and, despite being biologically related, was legally able to treat her due to my being adopted. Long story. It was successful, despite the last-second surgery, but she was in a coma for several weeks afterwards. At one point I wasn't sure if she was going to make it. Then one day...she woke up."

Maggie takes in a deep breath, then turns back to her fully.

"The point of these isn't just to give you an inflated idea of what could happen. Rather, each surgery is...a tide. They ebb and flow, with the omnipresent possibility that you could be pulled under. I'm here to make sure you're guided on the safest path. The _highest_ possibility that you can make it back to shore. It's up to you what you want to do. Your twins aren't due for another three months, luck permitting. That's more than enough time to go through your options."

Luck doesn't seem to be a close friend of hers. Rose deliberates for a few quiet minutes, picking at her nailbeds and avoiding eye contact. She eventually says she'll think about it, which seems to take all the steam out of her, and Parker takes that as a sign to turn off the slides.

"I think we're good now." He says with a small nod.

Nothing monumental, but, well. That was yet to come. Rose isn't required to stay in the hospital yet, so she promptly leaves for the lobby without looking back (waddling as best she can with her stomach and waving away a nurse who reaches out to help). Maggie's mood perks when Parker offers to buy her a coffee after they check in with the receptionist, and they end up deciding to skip the cafeteria altogether. She studies the doctor photos in the main lobby as they stroll toward the front doors. Jackson's has been moved up to the former section, a detail that makes her chest ache with equal parts nostalgia and fondness. It feels like he's watching over her through that frame, somehow.

It must be his religious sentimentality rubbing off on her, and yet, she really doesn't mind the thought at all. Maggie presses fingers to her mouth, then places a kiss on the photo's lips before following Parker into the afternoon glare.

***

_What's the best thing on a Sunday??? Strawberries and chocolate!!! <3_

While she indulged in the occasional filter while jogging with Jackson or visiting Harriet, Sabi, on the other hand, was in love with the very concept _itself_. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack flipping through her Instagram for a photo that didn't have dog years, sparkles or a gauzy haze. Maggie snorts when she scrolls to a selfie of her cousin in front of the gum wall. Hashtag _nasty_ and a star halo. She taps a like, then punches in a comment reminding her to visit the much cooler Space Needle when she has the time. A text pops up while she's scrolling through Sabi's visit to a local animal shelter.

_Maggie, do you mind if we sit down for a talk?, Catherine, 12:11 p.m._

Maggie stiffens, then sighs internally. Oh, boy. That's...not a good idea. This is the _fifth_ time she's texted her this month, each message more polite and needling than the last. Jackson must really be sticking to his guns this time to set boundaries between them. The receptionist calls out a name. An older woman gets up and shuffles off down the hall. She looks back down to her phone and starts punching in a message to Jackson. This is almost enough to keep her mind off her first therapy session. Almost.

_off I go to spill my secrets and come out a reformed woman. wanna break the pizza clause again and get a pepperoni and salad tonight? Got an amazing case today and I want to celebrate as much as I can under HIPAA, Maggie, 12:15 p.m._

Jackson had been _beside_ himself when she shared her desire for therapy. Held her hands and actually bounced in place, telling her it's a _fantastic idea_ and _we should go over coping methods together_. Maggie bites back a smile as she signs in at the front desk, plucking one of the little chocolates out of the bowl as her insta-reward. Her boyfriend remains a curious blend of enthusiastic and humble about his new expertise on mental health, a polar opposite of the suave man she met a few years back. She's more than sure it's the leftover shame. It's hard to admit he's fluent in something that nearly cost him his job _and_ their relationship.

Maggie's hardly gotten comfortable before her name's being called to Room 302. A realization hits her as she's strolling through the hallways to her counselor's room. One thing therapist offices do better than hospitals? Interior decorating.

Hospitals are as sterile as can be, designed to be cleaned easily and spotted for errors as quickly as possible. It was a practicality, first and foremost, which bore the double-edged sword of a lifeless look that had patients cramping. She could always see it every time she walked into an office to meet with her next patients. The fidgeting, the stiff postures. The overenthusiastic conversations to distract from the matter at hand. While some of that same tension was here (there was a lady in the far corner of the lobby looking like she'd rather be _anywhere_ else), it's...softened.

Just like the lilac watercolor paintings on the hallway wall. Just like the squishy knit chairs and potted plants that may or may not be real. She gives one a test sniff (real), then rounds a corner. ...This place is bigger than she expected, and in the way that gives her way too much time to start overthinking.

What...was she going to say once the session got started? This whole idea, admittedly, had been more of a proactive one than a reactive one (another major difference between her and Jackson). Would she rattle off her flaws. Bring up all her fears? Her childhood was probably going to come up, and that whole mess was like a picture book, if she outright skipped some of the pages and tossed the occasional one away. When she talked about it, she was fine. When she _thought_ about it, though, it was another case entirely. Jokes about being a gangly, bespectacled nerd flowed easily enough with her hands in gloves and mind centered in the now.

Having to dissect it, though? Turn on the slideshow of those stressful, painful, lonely, lonely, _lonely_ years with mental popcorn in her lap? It doesn't sound fun. At all.

"Maybe I should reschedule..." Maggie mutters, out loud-

-and there it is. Room 302. She looks down at the little pink doormat. _Honesty is the best policy!_

"...never mind."

Oh, she _hopes_ she doesn't mess this up. She says as much when she walks in and greets Penny, a deceptively young-looking woman who is visibly delighted as only a therapist can be.

"Good! Oh, that's good. We want you just letting it all out here. Honesty is the best policy." She shuffles through a set of colorful laminated papers, eyes scanning back-and-forth with the speed of a dot matrix printer.

"Right." Maggie smiles, a little nervously, and sets down her bag. "I saw that on your doormat."

Penny winks.

"I like to clue people in early. Nasty surprises should be left for the outside world, hm?" She snaps the binder shut, then clasps her hands. "Allow me to follow up properly. My name's Penny. I have a Master's in psychology and a minor in anthropology. I'm getting into baking, but am pretty iffy at it, and you might be my future test subject. I'm allergic to cats and, sadly, _really love cats_."

Maggie tries not to laugh and utterly fails. The woman's a perky presence that makes her think of a really nicely wrapped present in a greeting card store. Her ringlets are as fat and shiny as curly-q present toppers, polka dot dress contrasting her brown skin beautifully. It's currently taking all her effort not to stare at her glittering heels. She's probably the happiest-looking therapist on the planet, and although she's perfectly aware of the ability to separate work and life, it's still impressive. Once she gets comfortable on the squishy armchair beside the window Penny holds out her hands.

"Now, this is just as much a vetting process for you as it is for me. This first session is to figure out how compatible we are and how comfortable you feel sharing details about yourself. Ask as _many_ questions as you need. If you don't feel like this will work out, trust me when I say I won't be offended. We don't expect every new sweater to fit us, so why would every person suit us?"

"I have a few already, actually." Maggie raises a finger. "One. How can you be so cheerful while shouldering people's problems?"

"Because I'm helping solve them." She nods firmly. "Reliable motivator."

"That makes...perfect sense. Two, um...where did you get those adorable heels?"

Penny's delighted at that, pulling out a coupon from apparently nowhere and handing it to her. So much for nerves. While tucking it into her purse Maggie looks over and imagines little Maggie. She's standing in the corner of the doorway, coils askew after running away from the extracurricular girls who never seemed to run out of straws and soggy balls of paper, duffle under one arm and sneakers dirty. She probably never would've imagined a therapy session to get off on such a... _nice_ foot. If only she knew.

"What would she say, if she were in here?" Penny asks. When Maggie cocks her head she holds out a flat palm at waist height. "Your younger self."

"Okay, that...is uncanny. How did you know what I'm thinking?"

"You work in the field for a while, you get used to that staring-into-the-middle distance look. It's _uuusually_ a bad memory or reflecting on childhood." She pauses. "Maaaybe wondering if you left the stove on."

Talk about an effective segue. Maggie takes in a deep breath, which cues Penny to whip out a razor-thin laptop and pop it open.

"Um, okay. I...was bullied a lot growing up."

She knows, when her throat catches, that it was a good idea to come here.

"Like, a _ton_. That's what being a certified child genius does. I have more memories of having gum stuck in my hair or being called ugly than I do of happy, carefree things. It was like a mathematical equation at one point. For every time my Dad took me out to a science fair or bought me ice cream, I'd have three instances of having my bag turned upside down and emptied in a puddle by the bus stop. Here's the thing, though. I'm not even _angry_ at them anymore. They were kids raised by crappy adults and validated by crappy teachers who didn't know any better. I'm not saying it was okay, but I know where to place the blame."

Was it always this easy? It's all tumbling out like candy confetti out of a pinata.

"Do I feel like I've missed out on half of my life? Kind of. Am I going to complain when people have it so much worse? _Definitely_ not, but it still kind of sucks, and I never really got the chance to talk about it because I was either too shy to share or too busy to talk. Then my Mom cheated on my Dad and turned me into the child genius with a broken family, which was just _perfect_ for my massively messed up self-esteem sandwich, and that's such a horrible thing to dwell on because I love her so much still and I don't want to dwell on that, either. I don't."

Penny's fingers are a blur.

"Saying it out loud like this, it's...a lot. It's a _lot_. I've always been three steps ahead on an educational level and three steps behind everywhere else and it's messed with me something awful and sometimes I don't think I've actually gotten over it and it drives me crazy because I nearly sabotaged one of the best things in my life because of that." Maggie sucks in a long, sharp breath, letting it out in a slow hiss through her nose that makes her shoulders slump. "Aaand...I don't want that to happen going forward, not with so much of my life going so well, hence why I'm here."

Penny actually, goodness gracious, thumbs a tear from her eye. An actual tear. She can see the shine smudge and everything.

"...That...was _beautiful_." She flaps her hand. "It usually takes three or four more sessions before I get that many confessions. I was actually going to ask about your biggest motivation for therapy, but you answered that already."

"I guess...that means I'm, um..." Maggie tries a smile. "...doing well? I hope?"

Penny's expression softens. She folds her arms on her knees and leans forward.

"The fact you're here means you're doing wonderfully. While this is a fantastic first day, it's okay to not figure everything out right this very instant. Let yourself be, then go from there. Overthinking is a very common problem for most people who attend therapy for the first time. I'm more than sure the American for-profit medical healthcare system is a big reason for that."

Right. Overthinking. Maggie clasps her hands together, considering for a moment.

"I'm also afraid of becoming an alcoholic."

"We'll jot that in for next time."

They proceed to discuss doctor-patient confidentiality, which feels so beautifully familiar she temporarily forgets her nerves. Penny then has her flip through a series of papers, jotting down signatures when needed, and offers her a bowl of cookies that taste like dry play-dough (though she doesn't say so). Before she knows it the session's wrapped up and she'll be seeing her once every other week for hour-and-a-half intervals. Maggie leaves with a light heart, a few brochures and a stomach flip-flopping around the questionable confectionery she ate.

_I think I have an idea what patients go through when they meet me for the first time, Maggie, 2:47 p.m._

_What do you mean?, Sabi, 2:48 p.m._

_My new therapist is so babyfaced!!!, Maggie, 2:49 p.m._

It's hard not to swell with pride, despite how flip-floppy her whole body feels after just dumping it. That was a therapist's job, of course. Helping to sort through the mess. Maggie fiddles with the paper wrapper of one of the chocolates she plucked on the way back out. She closes her eyes as she chews, enjoying the sun on her skin through the windshield without the bite of incoming autumn. Little Maggie would be writing in her diary right about now. Clutching her secrets to her chest. This is why she was here. To do it for her.

The warm day settles into another warm one. Of a long, winding drive through the Boston coast.

_She doesn't like to read while driving, but she doesn't to window-watch the rain. It's normally beautiful, but her brain is doing that itchy thing. Itchy-scritchy-scratchy._

_"Careful, baby. You're going to get nauseous."_

_"I have a lot on my mind. I can handle an upset stomach."_

_He chuckles a little as she pops open the glovebox for some markers. Her diary is still drying out on the bookstand, but loose-leaf notes were the mark of a true writer, or so she's heard. It makes sense. They're like leaves on a tree. Chaotic, maybe, but that's why they were perfect. Maggie eventually pulls out a little cluster of Post-It notes and starts to scribble down the day's story. A soft patter starts up on the glass, and she can't help but pause her work and look out, anyway._

_"Chilly today. How does crockpot sound? I'll put it on high." He says, slowing down to a stop at a light. Maggie watches the green and red twinkle through the water._

_"That sounds good."_

_Her father mutters to himself, debating between pot roast and chicken. She looks down at her notes, jotting down a new, sadder thought. It's times like this she wish she could draw better. It's not like she didn't have a good imagination. It'd just be nice to see it, sometimes._

_"Dad?"_

_"What is it?"_

_"Why were you mad at Mom yesterday?"_

Maggie sits back up when her phone buzzes again, but it's not Sabi this time. It's a call from Grey-Sloan.

Jackson's been brought in with several gunshot wounds.

All the brochures in her pocket and the success that came with them might as well be made of charcoal. Maggie's hands shake as she starts the car, her body cresting into that buzzing high that comes with a flood of adrenaline. Okay. This is...a turn she wasn't expecting today, but that's okay. He'll be fine. Jackson's been through a _lot_. A pretty face and a lot of money didn't stop him from being one of the hardiest people on the planet. He's the kind of guy to fling himself out of the frying pan and into the fire because it's the right thing to do. He's been hospitalized before. He's going to be _fine._

Maggie mutters a mantra beneath her breath as the engine rumbles to life. Even if he's _not_ fine, he's got the best doctors at his side. It's Grey-Sloan, for goodness sake. Bailey was probably working today. Webber, Link, Parker. She can't freak out until she gets there. She can't freak out until she gets there. _She can't freak out until she gets there_. If she doesn't pay attention she'll cause a crash that'll just add more misery to the world. She can't freak out. She _can't freak out_.

The twenty-minute drive lasts for a thousand years. When she pulls into her parking space she flings herself out of the driver's seat, neglecting to check the car's lock in her haste to the front doors.

" _Where is he?_ "

It's a busy day, but one of the new interns waves her over. Parker is the first to greet her in the ER, though she can't see hide nor hair of Jackson. Oh, where _is_ he-

"He's okay. Lost a lot of blood, but he's okay." He assures. "He just got out of surgery."

Surgery? Oh, god, where did he get _hit?_ Parker takes her shoulder, and it's only a few seconds later she realizes why. She's holding onto the wall in a subconscious attempt to keep from falling, a sudden bout of dizziness making her vision sway. It's the best news she could hope to hear, but the image in her head keeps getting worse. Of his eyes blank with a puddle of blood spreading beneath his neck...or his eyes blank with panic in an ambulance lot, a shard of glass clenched so tight in one hand it's a wonder the whole thing doesn't slice off-

"He panicked pretty badly." Parker continues, unaware how closely he's following her thoughts. He keeps a firm grip on her elbow, gently nudging her upright. "I don't blame him, after he-"

"-survived a shooting." She finishes, faintly. "Um, okay. Just tell me where he is. I need to see him. Please."

Parker nods, leading her carefully past an incoming trauma.

"He got shot three times. Stomach, left leg and upper right shoulder. Stomach got punctured so we had to remove the bullet, whereas the other two went clean through. He needed a blood transfusion, several stitches and some anesthesia. He was also bruised up. Ben said he took the guy down, but they scrapped pretty hard." Maggie's head _spins_. "He might be a little loopy. The anesthesia should be wearing off soon. We'll have to give him another dose." Parker's voice goes sharp with familiarity. "Stomach wounds are _painful_."

More than that. Maggie's heart thumps painfully as she sidles past an EMT, trying to latch onto each crazy sentence after the last.

"Wait, okay, three times? Then he...he _took him down?_ " Her voice is so shrill several people look her way. "He _fought_ the shooter?!"

"Yeah. That's what I heard from Ben, anyway. Said he tackled him and beat him until he stopped moving..." Parker trails off when they pass by a group, then continues on a whisper. "He carried Jackson back like he weighed nothing. That man's a firefighter, through and through."

Her gratitude is drowned out by a hotter, crazier emotion. Damn it. Damn _him_. Superhuman, impulsive, _ridiculous_ Jackson. She can't figure out if she's impressed or horrified. All she knows is that she wants to throw up.

"D-Did Ben get shot, too?"

"Thankfully not. He got grazed. Just a few stitches on the right shoulder. Him and Bailey are taking the day off, though they said they'd come back to see Jackson once he's out."

The lines between patient and doctor often got blurry in Grey-Sloan, but Parker makes no attempt to draw them, for which she's agonizingly grateful. The adrenaline comes back, this time white-hot and centering everything into sharp focus. She's going to _howl_ at him for throwing himself into danger when he had no damn business doing so. Running into a fire that swallowed up the upper level of Grey-Sloan? Leaving her in that fog after that horrid camping trip? What in the hell _ever_ went through this man's head?

The realization fully hits her, then, like a truck out of the blue. He just survived another _shooting_.

Maggie halts, so suddenly Parker stumbles and nearly trips. What...what was that going to _mean?_ For them? He'd survived the one that ravaged Grey-Sloan, but with a dent in his psyche that nearly ripped up his entire life. Another dent had been left, right in her soul, and she's only recently started to feel it heal up. It took him months to heal from that. Months, on top of the years he'd spent running-

"Do you...need a moment?" Parker asks, softly. His hand's on the door handle. "We can wait."

"...No. I'm okay."

The whirlwind of thoughts dwindle to nothing when she steps inside. The horror and fear is washed away by an icy cold relief. Jackson is hunched on the side of the bed in a spare pair of sweatpants, his shoulder and stomach bandaged neatly with a pair of hospital sneakers set neatly to one side. His skin is sallow from the blood loss, knuckles swollen and bruised. An IV is hooked to his uninjured arm. She doesn't realize both of her hands are crushed against her mouth until she hears the muffled whine that breaks through. She almost...he _almost-_

"What the...he's not supposed to be _up_ yet." Parker groans, with the affect of someone who's seen this more than once today. He takes a step forward, then halts at her expression. "Do you need me to stay?"

Maggie swallows hard. Shakes her head.

"I-I got this. I got this."

He's all too familiar with PTSD himself. It's a testament to his trust in her that he shuts the door, leaving her alone right next to the yawning chasm of _almost gone forever_ that's suddenly emerged in her life. For a minute or two Maggie frets in place, trying to figure out what to do next in her haze. She thinks of cracking the door open, even though that hasn't agitated him in months. Then again, he hadn't been in a damn _shooting_. ...Right. Right! Their routine. It _has_ to be their routine, because there were too many bad memories pulled up for anything else to work. She pulls up a nearby chair, fingers ice cold, and sits a few feet away.

First step.

"Jackson." She wants to clear her throat, but even that might be too startling. "Do you understand me?"

The man before her hunches on his knees with one hand folding a death grip on his hair, eyes scouring the floor as if it's covered in ants. After a few seconds he nods, jerkily. Maggie asks again, because he could be nodding to something else. Hearing something else. It's the worst thing in the world, not being able to pull him into her arms after nearly losing him to _a shooting_ , and she shakes so much she swears she can hear her bones clatter.

"...I'm here." He rasps it like he hasn't had water in years, abruptly gripping his jaw in a visual warning she knows too well. "I'm here, I'm right here. Just..."

Her sigh comes out in a gust that leaves her swaying.

"O-Okay. Okay, um. What do you need?"

Jackson rolls his hand in the air. Struggling through the words.

"I don't know. I can't..." He huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Drags a palm up over his face to hold his forehead. "Everything's...no. No. Um. Glassy." He lets out a strange little sound, not quite a groan. "I think I'm...I'm on something."

"That's okay." She smiles, even though he can't see it. "The anesthesia hasn't worn off yet. You've also lost a lot of blood. I'll stay here, okay?"

He's at a seven, she thinks, which is one or two points lower than she was expecting. Then again, he might've been _much_ past that when he was first brought in and is now skirting on pure exhaustion...

"Jackson? I'm going to move this chair again, okay?" She pats it, just to make some sort of comforting noise. "I'm going to sit next to you."

"Mm-hmm."

She watches him scrub the heel of his hand on his pant leg, the movement weary and stilted. He told her how sometimes he'll rub or gently pinch himself when he slips into that 'glass'. That... _numbness_ that comes with a damaged brain pushing out too much adrenaline and not enough reality. Too much, though, can be like a slap to the face. When she tried to rub his shoulders that one night over a bowl of pasta, trying to help in any way she could, he'd _tugged_ away, suddenly startled just like he'd been in that parking lot a year and a half ago. It hurt a little, then. It'd been a lot to learn in a split second. She knows the language now.

"I freaked everyone out." Jackson gasps, suddenly. His eyes are a haunted grey, far too pale as they scan the tiles. "Oh, shit. Shit, I _freaked out_."

There's probably a recording of that, or two or three, and she hopes with all her might it's deleted thrice over so he can put this horrible memory behind him as fast as possible. She doesn't want him carting this over his back like everything else. Not _again_. Through the long, ticking, quiet minutes Jackson bounces his leg and stares at the wall, far too intensely for nothing there, then rubs his head again. Maggie grimaces, as much as she tries not to show it. He got shot twice. No, three times. He shouldn't be _moving_ so much. An odd humming noise starts up somewhere outside the room.

"Screamed at...screamed at Bailey. I think." He mutters. "I shouldn't have..."

"You were hurt and scared. They understand. After all you've been through here, they definitely understand." She tries to catch his gaze. It's like trying to juggle ice. "Can you lay down, please?"

"I'm not supposed...to scream." He doesn't budge. "I'm a doctor."

"You _were_ a doctor." She reminds, gently. Jackson grimaces and shakes his head.

It clicks. It's him. He's making the humming noise. A strained, hurting crest up through his chest to taper off like a scream that's too tired. It's worse than an outright cry. She wants him to cry, but that's not always how it works. Maggie gulps down the cluster of emotions and animal urges swelling up in her chest. She wants to hold him, but that's...not how it works, either.

"...Why?" He rasps. "Why me _again?_ "

Because the country that raised her still viewed the lofty ambitions of a select few more important than the safety of many. Because, no matter how often these sort of specific and wretched things happened, it was a principle that was preserved at the expense of life itself. Because the laws crafted by white supremacy and patriarchy were two inconsolable forces whose only goals were the destruction of _everything_ , even their own followers. Because because because. She's run dry on her capacity to put pain to words. The only thing she can do is stare and wish and want what's right in front of her.

"Nothing makes sense. Nothing _ever_ makes sense." Another strained sound, followed by the stiff hunching of his shoulders. As if physically fighting off what the trauma in his mind is trying to do. "This wasn't supposed to."

"Supposed to what?"

"It just...it just wasn't." Jackson holds out a splayed hand and shakes it as if he can jog himself back into place. "It can't _be_ like this. This can't happen, ever. I'm not the only one. That's how it feels like. Like it's just me, but it's not."

It's just south of a right sentence. Emotion before logic, sloppy and sincere, tenses jumbled as they no doubt struggle to line up with the sequences of events fresh in memory (playing out, probably, in jolts). It's an old appreciation for psychology she has at this point, two-fold after her therapy session, and Maggie watches him figure himself out, resisting the urge to twist her fingers together as he runs hands through his curls, drags them down to his beard. She winces when he inevitably pulls on his new, swollen stitches. Horribly, _that_ seems to ground him, and Jackson abruptly looks at her with a gaze that burns.

"... _Are you okay?_ "

Maggie smiles, tightly.

"I'm okay. I'm better than I could've ever thought." Her throat catches, kills the words, and she has to repeat herself. "Y-You're here."

And it's a debatable detail, as it often is. Jackson looks past her, at nothing.

"...Ben was..."

"Ben's okay, too. He's with Bailey right now."

Jackson grips the bridge of his nose again. Sniffs. Rubs it and looks at the wall.

"Was...was Harriet there?"

"No. Harriet wasn't there."

Harriet was currently with her mother, studying or napping or playing like a kid should do. She still had a father. That was so much more than most. The sharp crest of injustice at how _close_ today came at erasing that fact barely lasts. It fizzles out, prematurely, her entire body feeling like a bundle of twigs.

"It's...okay to not figure everything out right this very instant. Let yourself be, then go from there. I'm right here."

Then Maggie reaches out, even knowing that's moving too fast for how twitchy he is, because she can't _help_ it. She stays just out of reach, letting him come to her and bridge back to the present. Jackson stares like he doesn't even know her (and maybe right now he doesn't, with that glass he always talks about). What feels like eons later he leans off the bed, touches her knee gingerly, as if the concept of touch is a theory he hasn't worked out in person yet. She knows he's coming back when he grips her, without his usual strength.

"I'm really..." He says, slowly. "I'm really tired, Maggie."

She can't help crying, either.

They hold each other on the bed for a long, long time. He dozes off in her arms, once. She leaves only to go grab something to eat, and she can feel his gaze burning holes into her back long after she's gone down the hall. She brings back chips and a sports drink, one for each of them, and feels something deep down inside her buckle at the raw relief on Jackson's face when she opens the door again. The deja vu is almost too much to bear. She sends a text to Amelia first, another to Alex, then one more to Sabi before finally, mercifully, tugging off her shoes.

They lay together side-by-side half-watching a cooking video on YouTube, Jackson leaning off his injured shoulder and working his way through his drink with increasingly sleepy pulls. Maggie tries not to stare, then gives up and stares anyway. At the bandages tinged pink. The bruises dusting purple into the golden brown. At how very alive and warm and here he is.

"...sucks." He mutters, apropos of nothing. Maggie blinks.

"What sucks?"

Jackson scratches at his cheek.

"I _really_ wanted pizza."

Maggie covers her face, chuckling somehow.

"...What did you want to tell me today?" He asks, so low she almost can't hear. "Your text." Then- "I'm sorry I didn't answer."

Oh. How could he have known? Her heart patters with a thousand words. Maggie leans down and kisses his curls instead.

"I have an awesome artificial heart case." Another kiss, slower this time, and she feels him shudder. "One in ten million occurrence, give or take."

"Damn." His eyes drift past her to a spot on the wall, absorbing her words in that long, slow way of his. "...How was therapy?"

"Kind of scary."

"Yeah." Jackson rubs his nose. "But you went." His smile softens, exhausted and still adoring. "That's amazing."

He holds her, too, with the last of his strength. Kisses her ear and rubs her shoulder, because she needs comfort and she's still not great at asking for it. Not after a day like this. She might just have to start over with the concept.

Jackson shows her a virtual reality showcase, murmuring a string of technobabble she doesn't understand but is painfully grateful to hear. She has to pluck the phone out of his hand when he dozes off again, jaw slack and face smushed in her blouse. She responds to a text from Alex (concerned and relief evident even in a few words), then another from Bailey (on their way back to the hospital). She curls next to him and focuses on the familiar beeps and distant rustle of the hospital. Considers, on the wavy cusp of what could be a gentle dream or a nightmare, that there's not a _millichance_ she'll fail this case. Not after tasting the brink again.

Maggie's eyes flicker closed, exhaustion sinking her body as surely as silt. Lost to the lull of clean sheets, beeping monitors and the tired flutter of two hearts beating as one.

* * *

_Hurt is water. Joy is air. Life is a series of cresting waves to be ridden, and to fight them is to drown._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think about it often about the blissful periods right before something awful happens.
> 
> Some of it's anxiety disorder, no doubt, and some of it is a predisposition toward navel-gazing and nostalgia highs. It's just so easy to underestimate so much in life. Falling into a mellow stupor feels good, can even be essential when staying in the moment threatens to break you, but then you risk complacency. Complacency that can be dangerous to all you hold dear. Stories aren't just indulgence and fun for me, but necessary reminders when I get too passive with what's important. Too wrapped up in distraction to take better care of myself and others.
> 
> ...including preventing Shingles. I got that a few years ago and it _sucked_.


	3. a soul's ichor

**Song Inspiration:** "My Best Friend" by Hollywood Anderson

*

_she's my all and all and she's my everything_

_she's my seasons and my reasons_

_she's my summers she's my winters she's my spring, that's fine_

_i'm in love_

_with my best friend_

*

_The sheer scope of the world can be overwhelming at times. Most of the time, if you let it through the glass. So much so there are entire words dedicated to the sensation._

_Sonder is a term where the sudden realization of everyone's complex inner lives hits you like a truck. Schadenfreude is an ever-popular term, particularly in the age of social media, that has us transforming secondhand embarrassment into entire forms of entertainment. How can we be aware of so much, yet neglect what's right in front of us? Our passions, our family, our health? That could be the key. Maybe we need to work a little harder to center ourselves in the moment, lest we create an avalanche of new sensations that don't leave us any happier._

_The glass is there to protect, not suffocate._

* * *

_"Personal aesops are bullshit."_

_"Why?"_

_"You have to look back on them just as much as the good times."_

And Mark did, anyway, accepting life's wisdom as smoothly as a man once labeled as McSteamy only could. Sharing that wisdom on his deathbed, out of place, out of time. Jackson sighs through his nose, dropping his notebook with a defeated slap. This is the sixth or seventh time his mind has strayed from him in the past hour. It might just be time for a break. Against his will his eyes drift shut, the indulgent memory of sculpting practice irresistable...only to jerk to attention when his phone buzzes. God _dammit_.

"Shut _up_." He mutters, nudging it under his pillowcase with a spiteful bump of his elbow.

Like a dying insect it trembles the mattress. He's grown to loathe this sound, despite having no choice but to keep it on, and he enjoys a sting of petty pride when it goes silent.

_"Guess you need to work more on those good memories, then."_

_"Oh, I work on them. On the clock. Off the clock." Mark narrows his eyes, suddenly, and bobs his chin. "Watch your left, there."_

_"Got it."_

_Not a thing passed him by. No matter how much he tried to pretend like the world was one big joke and he was the only one in on it. Jackson rolls his tongue over his teeth, leaning in his light to better address the thinner skin where it starts to meet fat. This next part...could be tricky. If he's not careful he could inadvertantly create a more painful recovery. It was never enough to do a pretty job. It had to be sound, from the inside out..._

_"Give that to me." Mark says. His heart swiftly sinks. "Let me show you how it's done."_

_"You know I'm supposed to learn through doing, right?" Jackson protests. "I can do it."_

_"And you'll learn through my doing until I think you're ready." The man gives him a wink. "Now watch and learn."_

Jackson's breathing slows. The pain eases down its threshold, aching and distant. He feels through the old itch in his fingers. Better than the one in his skull, though not by much. He raises both hands above his chest, carefully crafting in the black a frayed, dirty wound from a bike accident. One that'd need a gentler touch than what the interns can provide. It'd be clean already, though. Rinsed and inspected, then it's getting the suture to hold it all in place...

_"Mr. Avery! Mr. Avery, we want to know if we could interview you on your experience at the clinic-"_

_"Jackson Avery, do you have a minute-"_

_"Do you have combat experience-"_

Jackson grimaces. He shifts against the pillows, rolling onto his good shoulder, crushes his eyes shut again. Imagines with every last scrap of imagination at his disposal. Bright lights. Blue scrubs. Tries...

_"...and the testimony of our three witnesses, in lieu of security camera footage, line up with the evidence that this was an act of self-defense. This couldn't be a more cut-and-dried case."_

_"Objection. The defendant's record states a history of mental illness. PTSD and depression. Violence is a side-effect of untreated mental illness, particularly considering the defendant's incarceration at a psychiatric ward less than a year and a half ago-"_

_"Objection! As did Tom Brown's medical history. CPTSD, last I checked, from a stint in the military straight out of high school. I fail to see the relevance beyond needless persecution of a modern hero."_

_Jackson stares at the swimming brown wood. As familiar as his bones that one day so long ago, when he heard nothing and felt nothing. Even through the distance he can tell his attorney is putting every last ounce of charisma and disdain into his last representation. He's grateful, somewhere out there. Fortunate beyond reason. And yet. His soul could bubble through his body and blister him to ash. It's just routine to confirm beyond a doubt in this legal box, but it burns, it burns, all the same._

_"Does the defendant have anything else to add?"_

_It burns._

_"...Mr. Avery?"_

His relaxing evening of study is veering into a hotter, more painful territory. One that makes his breath short and his jaw scrape. ...God. It really is his fault. _All_ of it. Hariet could've been sentenced to years of grief due to his stupid, stupid pride. Maggie would've seen another loved one fade away on a hospital bed. He put Ben in danger, himself in danger, so _many_ in danger, because he couldn't let go-

_Shiny brown is traded for soft gray and a sweep of leftover green fading into orange. The fresh air is all he can feel, his hands and head numb. The cold air whips around them in a flurry that should sweep him off his feet and carry him far away. Away from all the damage that seems to follow him like a storm cloud. It's a successful day, a triumph manifesting in a handshake from his attorney, then a tight hug from his good friend, but it all feels like little more than a curse._

_"I'm so fucking sorry." Jackson wants to hug him back, but it feels wretchedly inappropriate, like a too-small bandage on a gaping wound- "What the hell was I thinking, asking you to go there-"_

_"Hey. Hey! Stop, please. Just stop." Ben takes his shoulders, gently so not to hurt his wound, not knowing he's hurting something else entirely in the process. "Come on, man. How many disasters have we lived through-"_

_"No, those were different. Those weren't my fault!" Jackson grips him back, shakes him. " **This was!** "_

_"Jackson. Jackson. Listen to me, look at me." He holds his face, but he can't feel his hands. "It wasn't your fault."_

When his phone rings he wants to _scream_.

Jackson shifts his head to the left to better stare down the scatter of textbooks and scattered notes. Right where his phone bounces and shudders like his very own personal demon, struggling to break free from its satin prison. Who the _hell_ was it now? Reporters? Lawyers? His mother? Better yet, an actual ghost come to life and manifesting physically to haunt him until he lived his life properly? This little square of technology had haunted him at the ward, a bomb growing larger with each news story and message and missed call he'd been too broken to look at. He'd only just managed to grow accustomed to having it in his life again, until-

_"But I don't remember **killing** him, Ben-"_

His phone goes quiet...then starts ringing again. The agony rattling his jawline crests, right in tune with the white-hot, helpless _rage_ , and he snatches his pillow and flings it away. Picks up the phone, presses the accept call button and-

" _Stop fucking calling me!_ "

He moved too damn fast. Jackson grimaces and clutches his stomach swiftly, hunching down until his forehead is nearly touching his knees. There are a few moments of fuzzy silence. Then-

" _Hey, hey, hey. Woah._ "

Jackson freezes.

"...Oh. Shit, Ben, I'm so sorry. I thought you were-"

" _-clearly someone you didn't want to talk to. Yeah._ " He pauses, something shuffling in the background. Dense and ringing, dishes, probably. " _I'm just checking in, though I guess you answered my next question already. You doing all right?_ "

Jackson lays back onto the bed as carefully as he can, but he's already pushed himself too hard. His wounds ping-pong in a manic firework, hot and _aching_ feedback between his shoulder and stomach. He grinds his teeth and tries to keep it out of his voice.

"I'm...I'm all right. Took a few days off from classes after being discharged from the hospital. One of my classmates, uh...Thompson, he's emailing me his lecture notes. I'm either jogging, sleeping or studying, whichever comes first." He shifts to one side as best he can without knocking over all his hard work, trying to ignore the acute failure that comes with human limitation. "Don't remember the order."

" _Good, good. Just don't do all at the same time. With your crazy ass stamina you'll end up in Canada and, thanks to that weird flu going around, they might even turn **you** away._"

Jackson scoffs. Ben _actually_ sleepwalks, according to Bailey, though he denies it at every opportunity.

" _How're your wounds, though? A little soon to go out around the block. Hasn't been more than a week._ "

"It's fine. I need to move or I get stir crazy."

" _You'll get more than that if you pull your stitches open_."

"All right, Nurse Ben. Now what about you? I'm not the only one that got tapped."

" _Oh, I'm fine. Boys are running me ragged with one thing or another, so I don't really have time to dwell. I think the itching of the stitches bothered me more than anything. Drove me nuts in the shower because every time I went to scratch I could never get the right spot._."

The man chuckles, but it falls flat on his ears. He wasn't there when it happened to Grey-Sloan. The horror of that day was filtered through Bailey's firsthand accounts. Through Christina's, through Owen's. Through...his. Now he has a taste of it. Jackson bites at the sudden lurch of self-loathing, a scouring and frustrated hatred at the doom he _always_ seems to bring on the people he loves. Ben was a good man. _Too_ good, in too many ways. He didn't deserve the wide-awake nightmares. The mood swings. The glass.

" _You...still there?_ "

"You should, though. Dwell a little." Jackson continues, jerkily. He keeps his eyes open this time, staring up at the ceiling and counting the tiling one-by-one. If he closes them he'll see spinning lights and a shard of window glass. "This shit will sneak up on you."

" _You were telling me I swap careers, yet here you are being my therapist_."

This is how he knows it's worse than it sounds. Ben's joking overtime, but it's a coping mechanism he can appreciate, because he himself is still trying to reconcile the chapter in his life stuck behind a laminated plastic. Jackson presses a hand to his stomach, feeling around the swollen bump that separated a good day from a near-death experience. It makes no sense. Not a lick of it. He's a doctor, who quit his comfortable job _and_ saved lives _and_ taken a life in the past few days, and somehow today's just another Wednesday.

" _You there?_ " Ben's voice grow soft. " _If you need to sleep, man, just tell me._ "

His personal aesop, rearing up and tapping him on the shoulder. Jackson works at his jaw, chewing around the throbbing twinge. What a mess. His public meltdown and the memory of all that followed doesn't sting so much anymore, no, but it was still a pain weighing him down every time Maggie sat with him during an episode or asked him what was wrong during a daydreaming spell. Now he has something brand new to whiplash his attention. He takes in a slow breath, extends the exhale, and starts his tile count anew.

New job. New space. New hauntings. Sleep won't come for hours yet. He needs a new topic, too. For now.

"...Were you ever bullied growing up, Ben?"

Ben hardly pauses at that. He's used to his odd trains of thought.

" _Sure I was. Bullied for my hair, bullied for my junky car, bullied for **not** being a bully. I'd ask if you were, but you told me before you weren't._"

"Yeah. Kind of hard to bully the resident rich kid."

" _Prom king_." He adds. Jackson rolls his eyes. Thank goodness Maggie's out with the kids. This would've been a tag team for the ages.

"Prom king." He repeats. "Well...I'm asking because...I don't...what do you do with scars like that? When you're an adult and out of that environment, but it feels as fresh as yesterday? I feel like I know this intrinsically and don't know it at all. Somehow."

" _You're all over the place tonight, Jackson. Why do you ask?_ "

"Thinking about a lot of things." He gives in and rubs at his chin. Just a pass. "Too many things."

Ben's all too happy to indulge him in school stories, and it works like a charm. Their conversation proceeds to go on for an hour, as much as he can manage before his social battery and stamina is burning at both ends. Jackson hardly has the strength to put his phone on the bedside table again before he's sinking into a stiff plank of loose-leaf emotions and sore muscles. He's got another two hours before he can take painkillers, but he might just sleep through it.

The night has burned through him clean, but the last memory that flickers in his mind before he passes out isn't a warm one.

_"I can't take that back!" He can't touch her, not with how far away they still both are, but he wants nothing more than it. "I wish I could scrub away history, I wish I could go back and undo it all, every single day I've been here. You don't know how badly-"_

_A cold wind kicks up around his feet, pushing him from side-to-side, even though he can't feel a single degree. Their fight lasts for minutes that feel like hours that scream like years. The look in Maggie's eyes is hotter than oil. More fragile than snow. Someone calls from the front doors of the ward, but he has nothing for it. Everything's turned to rubble, and he was the spark that set the fire._

_"You told me not to give up before something even started." When she slams the door he feels something similar in the center of his chest. Hard and final. "You gave up. Not me."_

***

_CALL ME RIGHT NOW!!, Catherine, 9:00 a.m._

_missed call, 9:01 a.m._

_missed call, 9:04 a.m._

***

Laundry becomes one of the worst things.

All they're doing is folding clothes and suddenly, viciously, he hates the idea of _everything_. The fucking insistence on chores that never seemed to want to be done, unfolding and sullying and unfurling in a manic, bratty pattern that makes the hair on his arm itch. The fact that, once they _were_ finished, he had to continue chugging along on the pattern of life to validate the action and make sense of it. God, the pointless redundancy of it all. He hates it, fucking hates it, wants nothing to do with the insensate, sorry _idea_ of it. What the hell was it all for?

What was the fucking _point?_

His breathing's gone tight, because his shoulder wound is starting to throb, which then makes his stomach burn awfully, and this might as well be a powder keg on a fire. Jackson twists the shirt until he swears he can feel the thread count tattooing itself into his palm. His painkillers are in the bathroom, yet he doesn't even want to take them for the physical ache. He wants to take them for the sheer fact he's sick of _thinking-_

"Jackson?"

The sound of his name is enough to make him want to scream. He doesn't. He looks up to Maggie, carefully pressing down his former work shirt on the other side of the bed. The one he hasn't worn in weeks, because he quit being the one thing he was _good_ at.

"Are you okay?"

" _I'll never be okay_."

It comes out before he can stop it. Maggie isn't shocked, not anymore, but his hurt still hurts. She slowly sets down the top. She doesn't move closer, despite clearly wanting to, and that's ridiculous, too. He's not a fucking wild animal. He's just _tired of it all_.

"Jackson..." She starts, reaching out a hand-

" _Don't_." He swats at the air. "I'm sorry. I need...I need to be alone."

He hates it.

He hates the sound of the door clicking shut and her retreating footsteps. Hates the rare spot of sunlight on his back through the window. Hates himself, when he flings the shirt away from him and nearly knocks over the bedside lamp. He pops his hydrocodone, lays down on the pile of unfolded clean clothes and sinks into a numb, throbbing sleep.

***

Hero, they call him.

"You're a doctor and a goddamn superhero, man. What _can't_ you do?"

It's the flipside from before. When he became his own winter and froze everyone around him.

"Thank you. For what you did. _Thank you_."

It doesn't fit.

"Would you be available for an interview sometime next week?"

His face is back on the news, now for an entirely different reason.

" _Jackson Avery, double board certified doctor and former head of the Catherine Fox Foundation, survived a mass shooting at a local volunteer clinic. Despite being shot twice, he was seen taking the shooter down in what many are deeming Seattle's very own superhero..."_

" _It was a year and a half ago he was committed to a psychiatric ward, expanded upon in his illuminating interview with Sun Health Services. What a stunning change of events, all things considered._ "

" _No kidding. I don't know what I'd do in a situation like that. Here's hoping it doesn't happen again._ "

He's tired.

Instead of the board-certified doctor that lost his mind it's the former doctor that nearly lost his life, protecting a small clinic from the violence of yet another statistic. It's as if he were _destined_ for the spotlight, and, fuck, that thought makes him want to retch. It's just what his mother told him at a young age. Destiny. Legacy. Great fortune. All grandiose platitudes while simultaneously shrugging off his grades and feigning disinterest in his minor achievements. It takes him a second to realize he's been scowling, the stress pinching down his brow, and he hastily stamps on a smile.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"Just that you need to sign on the bottom there." Barry points, though that horrible glint of interest doesn't leave his eyes. It's an instinct that, like usual, rings true. "You were caught in the middle of that clinic, right? When it happened?"

Jackson rolls his jaw, not looking up from the contract. Not a moment too soon.

"You know about that, huh."

"Of course. It was practically next door." Another point. "Sign there, too."

He's mercifully distracted once he has to provide one last tour through the new business-to-be, which is _just_ distracting enough to keep his mind off of the bad attempt at small talk. To his own credit, he didn't exactly hire this guy for his ability to read the room. The place twinkles like a _dream_ , not a single chair or light string out of place. It's lovelier than he could've ever imagined (and he hadn't been shy about scratching out a few drafts of his own to show the interior designer). His heart swells at the future look on Maggie's face. Soon.

"Want to try a sample?" Barry offers, walking up to the lobby's main wine rack. It's already outfitted with a few practice bottles, sleek and unlabeled.

The temptation of a hot, relaxing buzz is tempting. More tempting than he'd like to admit. He also doesn't want to sully this memory with impulse. Not when the point was to _share_ this place and all its beautiful first-times.

"You know...I'll hold off." Jackson smiles, leaning back on his uninjured leg. "Good things come to those who wait and all that."

"All right. Suit yourself." He frowns. "You sure you don't need help back to the car-"

"I'm _fine._ "

The thought of a job well done keeps him treading water for the rest of the day. When he returns to class his classmates tell him they were worried. It makes sense, in a distant sort of way.

His brief stint as 'some doctor' nobody knew personally or peripherally is over. His business is all over the news with a fresh coat of paint, far too local to glance over. Everyone in the room stares at him with acute fascination, just a sliver of caution, and it's another new reality to sort out amid the mess. Jackson accepts a touch on the arm he doesn't feel and nods to another platitude, then lets himself float over to his seat. He automatically nudges his bag beneath the desk and drums in the sequence of keys that flicks the screen on. This is what he has to live with. Glass is everywhere, somehow, someway. Thick, thin. He wonders about it, from far away, as the lecture moves before him like a rolling ocean. In a way, he...kind of needs it.

The good emotions were numbed, sure, and that was scary as _hell_ when he remembered what scary felt like, but so was the pain. So was the pain.

"You good, man?"

Jackson lets out a tight sigh through his nose. It takes him a second to remember his name. That was a side-effect he hated almost as much as the nightmares, to be honest. Jim? ...Tom. Thompson. A horrible name that he can't fucking stand-

"Yeah."

-no. That's not fair. He's someone else entirely. He's...a classmate. Rabid notetaker, long locs, permanent baseball hat.

"Or, rather, not...really." Jackson corrects, with a chuckle, even though there's nothing funny. "I will be, though."

"...Right."

Thompson squints, as if trying to suss out a mirage. It's a frustrating side-effect, being honest when it's easier to slap on a plastic smile and deflect. Now it's getting to the point he can hardly control anything he feels. He thinks back to Maggie's wilting face over their big pile of laundry last week. Feels a sharp pulse of regret that travels down to the tangled muscle in his stomach to settle into an ugly coal.

"Um...thank you for taking those notes." Jackson adds, weakly. "I would've been pretty lost otherwise."

"...Sure." The man scratches at his locs and looks away. "No problem."

Jackson watches him wheel back to his station, then turns back to his screen, doggedly trying to follow lines of code that look like nonsense.

The teacher's lecture today leans away from hard numbers and commands, focusing on the narrative foundation of virtual reality and what it's been used for over the years. He feels a tingle of inspiration as she moves through slides of examples, from old and tacky virtual reality games to modern iterations. A sensation that grows stronger with each passing minute. _This_ is why he's here. To take his experiences, good and bad, and filter them into a piece of interactive art that can help others. Jackson jots down notes little by little. At one point he even asks a question, despite how floaty he feels.

When the lecture's over he reviews his notes, pulling up his drafts to start figuring out how he wants to design the doctor's table. ...Then he stiffens. Some of the notes are legible, as much as they can be in what people call his chickenscratch, but others...others make no _sense_. Jackson slowly shakes his head, unable to look away. Random word strings. Sudden cursive. Scribbles that transition into a phrase that melts into legibility again. His heart thumps oddly, in what could be fear or shock, but what was there to be shocked about? His brain hasn't worked right for a while.

Painkillers have to wait until he gets home. Jackson excuses himself to go outside, grabbing an orange juice from the vending machine and breathing in the sunlight on the bench. He punches in a few notes on his phone for his next session, then prays to _God_ they're intelligible a few hours later.

_virtual reality course. writing got weird, out of nowhere. feeling floaty. irritable. around 2:15 p.m._

It's hard to keep too much down, with his stomach still stitching itself together. Jackson sips carefully, hyperfocusing on the flicker of the grass to counteract the nausea. His mother is probably having one of these episodes, herself. _Been_ having one, if her thousand and one damned calls ( _and hundred and one emails_ ) are any indication. Her only son snipping off the family wasn't in the cards. It never was. Would Webber hate him, eventually? His departure was going to put his mother into the mood to end all moods, backfiring on him as only a more passive husband can absorb.

He returns to class morose and heavy, the last ten minutes a crawl. Thompson glances his way, skirting gazes under the dark brim of his cap, but doesn't talk to him.

"Programming is a means to an end. It's a lot of number-crunching and organizing and bug-testing, yes, and that can be a dizzying pain in the ass, but it's all for a set purpose. That purpose guides you. Keeps you focused." She gestures to the board. "When you make a game, you make a purpose and share that with whoever puts the headset on. Leading the player down toward a certain conclusion or set of conclusions. They will _see_ through _your_ world."

Jackson looks down at his notes. Sketches and branches and working titles, interspersed with torn corners and the repetitive hatching he's started doing to redirect the itch in his jaw. They're bullet wounds of another type, aching in a slow swing from one vowel to the other.

_shard_

_through the looking glass_

_muffled_

***

_Jackson, if you don't call me I'm going to have to do something drastic. Don't make me do this., Catherine, 10:00 a.m._

_missed call, 10:01 a.m._

_missed call, 10:37 a.m._

_missed call, 10:38 a.m._

_missed call, 10:39 a.m._

***

He extends his session with his therapist. There are too many reasons.

It's been just over a year since he sent a chair through his life and had to pick up the pieces one-by-one. That's not enough time to make those old habits truly stale. His mental health has morphed into a void, yawning wider and wider _just_ over his shoulder, and the second he gets complacent is the second he's swallowed up with no end in sight. Jackson shares this all in a rush, lead-in and panache be damned. While the man's never been quite as laid-back as Barnes, his next words are a smooth and unhurried callback.

"If you need time away, from school, from family...just tell me. We can arrange something." He taps his pen on the desk thoughtfully. "There's no shame in admitting you need to be caught before falling."

There's a little shame, but he's not going to drown it.

"I will."

A walk should clear his head. A walk that turns into a jog, then a run. His leg throbs with each step, his stomach following in sharp tune. His shoulder is the closest he gets to a reprieve, healing the fastest and still keeping him from bobbing his arm in a respectable jogging rotation. Distantly he knows he's falling back into his pattern of over-exercise like he did at the ward. His phone bounces like a bomb in his pocket, every fresh buzz setting his skin alight and making him run faster. He stops only when it gets windy, the new fall air now on the biting side and slapping his face more than even his high tolerance can take.

"Okay, okay, I'm taking it easy." He mutters. The wind hits him with another gust, one he swears feels just a _little_ bit petty.

His walk takes him past street corners he hasn't seen before. Businesses he doesn't remember. It's a kind of lost that's refreshing, somehow, and he wanders, uncaring of the glances and occasional pointing. Jackson lingers by a nearby coffee stand, suddenly unsteady in it all, and that's startling enough to get him heading back home early. Just to stay...moving. Maggie's home, just off of work judging by the drooping state of her curls. He tries to hide his limp as he heads to the kitchen, his breathing ragged but his head blissfully light.

"Hey, Mag-."

"Harriet's in the principal's office."

"...What?"

 _Damn this glass_. It slows everything down! Jackson runs a hand over his beard, trying to translate the nothing to scratchy.

"Wait...wait, why? What happened?" He looks at his phone. "Why didn't I-" He pauses when he sees the missed calls. The ones he kept ignoring. "...Right."

"A fight, I think. They were vague, but..." The worry in her eyes is clear, but there's a stiff set to her shoulders that doesn't look right. "We should go."

"Of course." She looks like she still needs some space, which stings, but...he gets it. "I'll get ready."

He goes to the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water a few times. Brushes his teeth to inch the anxiety down with a little mint. The pain in his jaw edges in, but it's a vague sensation after the endorphin rush. He _can't_ be numb for Harriet. Doubly-so for Maggie, who is reliving bad childhood memories in real time and is definitely bottling it up. Jackson puts on his new shoes (he should probably cut back on new running sneakers for now), then puts a hand on Maggie's waist when she walks in.

"If this is too much, you don't have to come."

"Of course I do." She ties on the last button of her cardigan, then fluffs her hair back out. After a few ruffle sessions she reaches for the hairspray and gives herself a spritz. "We're family."

"Family means you don't have to be obligated to do something just because someone else says so."

Jackson waits patiently through her stubborn silence, raising his eyebrows in the mirror for extra effect. It's a topic he practically has a PhD on. Maggie huffs as she applies tinted lip balm, a pleasant berry shade perfect for fall.

"I'm an adult now. There's nothing for me to be afraid of anymore."

He inwardly sighs.

"...Okay."

It's a quiet drive to the school. Any other day he might be a little annoyed with her reticence, but right now all he can feel is grateful he's alive to weather her moods.

There are a few children sitting outside beneath the monkey bars when they arrive, the rest no doubt clustered beneath cooler shade while the season's still hanging on by a thread. His heart sinks as he scans along the grass. Damn. Harriet missing recess is going to hurt _twice_ as hard with all that energy she has. Maggie doesn't stop to take in the scenery. She snaps the car door shut and books it down the walkway, and he has to jog-limp to catch up with her. The hallways are empty enough for them to keep the brisk pace all the way to the principal's office, and his soul turns to ash at what he sees.

"Mr. Avery." The principal nods curtly. "Ms. Pierce."

April whips around, face red with what is no doubt a brewing argument that hasn't been resolved.

"Jackson, can you _please_ tell him that it's kind of a conflict of interest not to bring the bully's parents in here, too?"

"We don't know who started the fight-" He starts, holding up a hand.

"It doesn't matter who started it, because my daughter got _hurt_."

His shoulders bristle. She always used 'my' instead of 'our' when on the topic of their children. A way to create even more distance between them, no doubt. Maggie looks between them, holding tightly onto her purse strap and wearing an expression he can't quite parse. Harriet just sniffles and rubs at the big red splotch on her cheek. Jackson's chest grows _hot_. He slowly swallows down the rage and puts on the calm affect he's polished to a mirror sheen in Grey-Sloan.

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with us." Jackson pulls up a chair and leans down smoothly, crossing one leg over the other. "What happened?"

According to anecdotes -- a student teacher who heard some comments and the testimonies of nearby students) -- she was being teased for her hair. It's been growing out, which meant up, and has started to form a bouncy, curly halo he's been taking photos of at every opportunity. Jackson's chest curls with frustration as the story continues. Then someone got pushed, then someone fell, then then _then_. Harriet kicks her feet the whole time, chafing badly beneath the professional murmur of the adults. It's going to hurt, but she always listened better when he leaned down.

"Hey. Princess." He takes a second to brace himself, then carefully kneels in front of her on his good leg. Her leggings are smudged with grassy green and her shoes are still dripping. "Are you okay?"

"...They made fun of my hair." She rolls her mouth, right on the precipice of crying and too proud to make the plunge. "I _hate_ them."

"Your hair is beautiful." He gives one of her curls a fond pluck. "No one should make fun of it."

"She also shouldn't push?" Her principal adds. "I don't exactly enjoy these meetings, you know."

Jackson puts on a plastic smile.

" _I'm getting there_."

A gusty sigh hits his back. The man is clearly at the end of his rope. He no doubt has more on his plate considering end-of-the-year holidays, but it's no excuse to be flippant. He'd tell him off, but Harriet is snuffling and rubbing her nose, on the cusp of another cry.

"Harriet, when you-"

" _She just got bullied_."

Jackson, April and Harriet slowly turn in unison to Maggie, shaking by the doorway.

"Sometimes a kid doesn't do anything other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time." She whispers, one fist clenched by her side and the other gripping her purse. "It's when you try to push the blame game on everyone that no one is held responsible and this sort of thing keeps _happening_. Forgive me if I've never worked as a principal before, but I've been a student, and this is _not_ how you should be going about things."

"Are you a _teacher_ , Ms. Pierce?"

"No." She adjusts her purse strap, staring him down with a hard, dark gaze. "Just a former student and former bully-meat."

The man's embarrassed. He opens his mouth to argue, then snaps it shut at a glare from April, throwing his hands up in the air in clear defeat. Harriet circumvents detention, but is recommended she leave school early to 'think about what she's done'. Most kids would be thrilled at a half-day, but not her. She enjoyed her classes quite a bit and is a bundle of suppressed energy and hurt as a result.

"Daddy's walking funny." She squeaks as he picks her up by her hands and lets her 'float' over the sidewalk cracks. "Do you need a Tylenol?"

"Daddy's feeling much better, honestly. Up we go."

She's soon distracted by a pretty red leaf on the ground, which he helps her store in her coat. It's for the best she doesn't know. He had an accident, one they'll flesh out later when the mere memory doesn't turn him into shaky paper. April is taking Harriet for the rest of the month as a result. It's more than a little awkward trying not to rush through the kisses and well-wishings when they reach the car, his daughter extra clingy after her schoolyard scrap. Poor girl. It's hard enough being shuffled back and forth between her parents. Jackson kisses her curls, murmuring beneath her whimpers that they'll see each other before they know it.

"I wanna sleep over." She protests. He manages to get a scrunched smile when he does a kiss circle on her forehead.

"I know, princess. I know. We will."

April watches him with her arms crossed tight, expression inscrutable between strands of red.

"How are your injuries doing? You're limping..."

"Well enough. I have to walk on it to help it heal."

She studies him in a quick up-and-down. His patience frazzles. He's not in the mood today.

"April, I'm doing-" He starts, tightly.

"I can take her a little longer, if it'll help. Until Halloween." She breezes through, as if he said nothing at all. "It lines up with our long weekend, anyway."

Jackson sighs. It's a small branch, but green enough. He forgoes the hug in favor of a wave, then draws a heart on the cold car window to make Harriet smile. A passing couple stares at him overlong on the way up to the school's front doors, and he _hates_ having to scan people's expressions for that curious glint now. If they're operating on his past or his future. When he walks over to Maggie she's in a rare, deep brood, staring hard at her phone and not typing a single word. He puts his hands in his pockets and waits, patiently.

"...There's _always_ something to tease someone over." She mutters. "It's your hair, heaven forbid it's not stick straight straw. Then it's your braces, what you're wearing so you don't get bullied, ironically enough. Then it's your clothes. Then it's your lisp. Then it's your shoes."

His mother raised him right, at least on that front. He had a few schoolyard scraps himself over the years, but usually over dares. Dares that still ended up in nasty words thrown and parents involved. Forever a Fox, she would sit him down just outside the school gates and reminded him there were children his age who didn't have the luxury of whining over a shoe scuff. Maggie pockets her phone and rubs her forehead.

"I'm sorry I got snippy with you. Back at the apartment."

Jackson places a gentle hand on her waist.

"Don't be. I've been snippy more than enough times to balance you out."

"No, Jackson, I mean it. That's not fair of me to act like that when today wasn't even _about_ me." She sighs. "Can you at least save that look for when I'm done apologizing?"

He takes her by her hips and gently nudges her until she faces him properly.

"What look?"

" _That_ look." She glances to the side and all around in an attempt to stall, then finally looks up at him through her lashes. "I know you know what it looks like."

It better look like heaven's gates, because that's what he sees whenever she smiles. Maggie looks at him a moment longer, then sighs and loses steam, smiling helplessly down at the ground. Jackson pulls her close and buries his nose into her curls, finally breathing her in and letting loose that angry, anxious air in his lungs. His heart tightens sweetly when she digs her nails into his shoulders. She does that when she's overdue letting it out herself. He loves it. He loves every single thing she does.

"...How's therapy?" He asks. "Is it helping?"

"It's good. Really good." She breathes him in, and he feels her smile just a second later. "I'm glad I went when I did, because this is the sort of day that'd make me _want_ a therapist."

"Exactly. Better safe than sorry."

Jackson slides his arms down to knit at the low of her back, studying how her dark eyes glisten and wander. Almost as dark as the bottle of malbec waiting for them. He wants to pull back those curtains and see it all, but it has to be on her own time. He rubs a thumb in a slow circle, leaning in just a little to reach her halfway. Maggie closes her eyes and leans in, their foreheads coming together in a gentle thump.

"...Does your head do that floaty thing when you're stressed out? Like, sort of buzzy and static-y?" She asks. Jackson's heart twists a little. It's become such a common day-to-day detail he forgot some don't deal with it often. Not enough to get used to it.

"Yeah. Sometimes. Other times everything just fades and becomes really quiet." The glass has mostly left today, thoroughly banished through exercise and hard grounding. It feels almost superstitious to talk about it when it's not around. "Derealization."

Maggie mulls this over.

"Right...I remember now." Her voice grows soft. "...It's kind of scary."

It was terrifying at first. Bloodcurdlingly so. He's not sure it scares him anymore. Nowadays it's more...worrisome. Frustrating. Sometimes he's even grateful, depending on when it crops up and for how long. It's a little too messy to sort out his thoughts on the matter. At least, here and now.

"Yeah." He kisses the tip of her cold nose. "Tell me when you want to practice coping methods again."

"I will."

Then her look turns thoughtful. She looks back over at April and Harriet, lingering in the car as the tantrum wears off, then back to him. Jackson tilts his head.

"What is it?"

"Have you thought..."

She smiles, suddenly, and shakes her head.

"No, never mind. I'll talk about it later."

Huh. Maggie turning mysterious is one of the few things that could really leave him at a loss. When they get into the car he turns on a little Brian McKnight to soothe the mood. It works like a charm. The iron stiffness in her shoulders melts when the first few piano notes of 'The Only One For Me' filter through the speakers. It's long gone by the time 'Anytime' starts.

"So, what about you?" She sways her head serenely to the beat. "You wrap up your session in two weeks, right?"

"I extended it, actually. Going to do another few months."

For a brief, wonderful second he's proud. Actually, unquestionably _proud_ of his progress. It would've been easier to pull teeth a year and a half ago than admit he wasn't as polished as his doctor photo. Mental health remains a Rubik's cube, though. Not even the requests of those pestering reporters makes his heart thump when she asks her next question, as soft as a pillow and about as smothering.

"Have you...been talking to your mother?"

Jackson's grip squeaks the leather wheel cover.

"...No. That's kind of the point."

Maggie shifts in her seat.

"Yeah, but...she's still trying to contact you. Me, too. A few times. Doesn't seem to be the new start you want, still."

Jackson digs his thumbnail into the leather to avoid scratching at his jaw. Even with the carefully constructed wall of silence and time built between them, his mother was impeccably talented at interfering with his life. Reaching through her web like a spider to pluck at whatever strings she could find. Blowing up Maggie's phone? _Seriously?_ God. If boundaries were fish, she'd be the damn ocean.

"I don't...really know what you're getting at." Despite the gap, he can feel her stiffen. "I'm not just deflecting. I mean it. Do _you_ think this is a bad idea?"

"No. Not...really." That's frustrating enough on its own, but she adds, "You just seem so...unhappy about it."

"Of course I am." His voice lowers to a sullen whisper. "None of it had to be this way. You think I wouldn't want her by my side lately? After nearly getting my head blown off and... _killing_ a man?"

Maggie says nothing. Just folds her hands and looks out the window. Trying a little too hard to be casual after a conversation that's _anything_ but. He wants to tell her to drop it ( _why wasn't she just supporting him_ ). He doesn't. She has something to say, and he'll always hear it.

"I didn't...grow up with her. I don't know her like you do and I won't pretend like I do. It's just...my mother, she..." Maggie's sigh shakes, in that quivery way, and his hackles soften. He's heard that sound many times before. "She was a wonderful, beautiful, loving person, and she still cheated on my father and broke up my childhood. It was several years in the making, too. Emotional cheating, little by little, with tiny scraps of evidence left in phone calls and weird scheduling and empty dinners and thousands of secrets that led to a crash and burn I'm _still_ reeling from. It tore us apart."

Jackson slows to a stop at a red light. He glances her way, never wanting her to grieve alone.

"I was furious at her for so long. So _many_ years of...biting things back and wanting to yell out of nowhere and sometimes skipping visits because it wasn't worth going through the motions again and again and again. Yet, despite that, all of it seemed so... _paltry_ when she told me her diagnosis. She got sick, just like that, and none of it could be patched in time." Maggie looks at him now, blinking back a glisten in her eyes. "Your mom is sick, too. Better off than my mother was, but still...it could take away all your chances. Your chances to make things right or even yell at her some more, everything you've bottled up. I don't want you to go through that."

Then she sniffles and digs in the glovebox for a Kleenex. He waits through it. Maggie has her own way of pulling herself together. Where his was a rolling and folding of his pain, something manageable until it could crumple away in private, hers was much more open. Folding out, instead of in. Jackson turns down the music volume a touch. Only once she's done blowing her nose he speaks.

"...I've thought about it. Finding a more common ground with her. Trying to set boundaries and making everything that's hurt me water under the bridge. I have. But you said it yourself. You don't know her like I do." He rolls his jaw, trying to edge the pain into something more throbbing. Less sharp. It often kicks up during discussions of family and legacy. It's his constant reminder of what he's healing from. "...I told you she used to spy on my surgeries, right?"

"Yeah. That's...pretty extreme." Maggie agrees. There's another olive branch today, this time in her tentative tone. That she's not _so_ far away from what he needs to do. It's still not enough.

"I ever tell you how she spied on me in college?" Jackson chews on his lip. "In high school? Junior high?"

She doesn't speak. That's his go-ahead.

"It was well-intentioned. When wasn't it? She wanted to make sure I wasn't getting too involved in girls or hobbies and neglecting my studies. Studies she always deemed not enough whenever I _showed_ her, anyway. Never expected too much out of me. That's what kept me jumping, higher and higher." He nods to himself. "My mother is an easy person to like. She's even easier to adulate. Being her son has been...one of the hardest things in the world. Love isn't enough. Sometimes it's the most painful thing you can _ever_ go through."

He doesn't need to remind _her_ of that, that's for sure. Maggie's nod, again, is felt. Jackson rolls his words over in his head as he rounds a turn, then another. Something about this silence stings, and he can't take it anymore. He adjusts the wheel minutely then, without taking his eyes off the road, holds a hand out to her. She takes it a few seconds later. As gentle as anything, what feels like worry _and_ frustration in her mindful grip.

"I tried to put my foot down with her. Catherine Fox, however, treats boundaries like a surgeon treats a tumor. An opportunity for even finer slicing." Jackson tempers on the quiver note of righteous, gnawing betrayal in his chest. "I had to tell Lexie to take a weekend off so my mother wouldn't drill her. To literally _leave the hospital_ because respecting my wishes was never on the table. When a new slew of interns visited the hospital, my mother outright _bribed_ one to spy on me. I slept with her to piss her off."

It sounds absolutely ridiculous, saying it aloud. Small wonder he'd been branded a 'mama's boy' and a foundation mascot by his peers. So many of his actions, big and small, had been quiet rebellion against a mother that was supposed to love him with no strings attached. An orbit around her axis, never able to pull away to the stars he was always compared to, but never allowed to be near.

"When April and I were going through the divorce she rubbed her damn hands all over it. Meddled and spied and took control and made everything so much worse, then had the audacity to say she was looking _out_ for me. Like I wasn't a grown man taking responsibility for my _fuck-up_. Even when I went to go get closure with my useless void of a father, she tossed in my ex-wife in some sort of goddamn chess game. Ha, she even went behind my back and made me head of the Avery Foundation out of the blue, didn't even ask me. My co-workers couldn't stand me for it." His laugh is bitter. "It's like...I'm a pawn. I'm a _thing_ to be _used_ , like you'd pick up a pencil or a hammer."

It's old hat. His therapist has heard it. His _second_ therapist has heard it. Yet nonetheless his chest burns, like something dying into charcoal.

"When I saw her holding Harriet with April still in the hospital bed I felt this fear I couldn't quite explain. Nothing that made sense to me until very recently." His jaw hurts terribly, then, and he doesn't bother biting it back. "You can love someone and not be good for them. You can be wonderful in some ways. Terrible in others. This has been my whole life, Maggie. Nearly forty years of it. I don't...know how much more trampling I have left in me."

Then there's nothing else to say, because there's nothing left to do.

"...I'm not backing down now. I'll talk about it more, when I need to. I think...I just need to get over the hill first. Then I can worry about getting back down to it." His chest shakes with his next request. "I need your support on this, Maggie. It's the last thing I ever thought I'd do, and sometimes the mere thought of it kills me."

Maggie chews on the words for a few seconds. It feels like hours.

"Your family and foundation have been everything for you. You're right, it has been your whole life, and I know you wouldn't make this decision lightly." She kisses his knuckles. "I'm behind you, whatever you need."

The tension bleeds out of him like air from a tire. It's all he can do to hold back his sigh of relief. The drive dissolves into another silence, the only sound Brian's silky vocals, and this time he's grateful. The green and yellow crest of hills greets them when they round another corner, edging into the lovely neighborhood where he's staked his claim.

"Well, I just realized I suck at metaphors while driving."

"Why while driving?"

"Don't know. Must be a rare no-name condition."

Maggie huffs a laugh through her nose. He squeezes her hand. A laugh. _That's_ what he wants most today.

"So...wait. Where _are_ we going?" She puffs out her cheeks. "I really wasn't paying attention."

Jackson uses all his willpower to keep his smile small as he turns smoothly into the driveway.

"Kind of ritzy. Is this a restaurant? Or a bar?" She murmurs, craning her neck to stare down the fields. "Ooh. I smell cheese in my future."

The front porch lights flick on when they pull into view. Good. He has to bite his lip to keep himself from spilling the details prematurely. Maggie studies his expression, latching onto it.

"Is it a cheese wheel?" She whispers, studying his expression hopefully. " _Two_ cheese wheels?"

The sun bathes her brown skin in gold. It's dipping just past afternoon into early evening, where the colors get rich and the air snappy. Jackson leads her up the winding hill and to the front door, then bids her close her eyes. Just like that Disney movie Harriet's always singing songs from. He tries to place it as he unlocks the door and walks in, watching both her step and making sure her eyes stay closed. It's not that he doesn't trust her. It's just a wonderful sight, seeing her on the precipice of something that'll make her glow.

"Okay...open them."

At first she's confused. She blinks a few times, looking up and down and all around. Then her eyes settle in on the little wooden welcoming table. Her eyes scroll from side-to-side, reading the quaint sign...then she's back to looking around.

"Wow, pretty. I'm...seeing a lot of exposed wood. A lot of wine." She looks to him, blinking rapidly. "A lot...wait."

Jackson grins.

"You did not." She slowly covers her mouth. "You did _not_."

"This is a winery. For both of us, under both of our names. I already hired a distributor and a marketer. I just got done doing the paperwork with Barry, our realtor. We're going to keep it small-batch and local, something to keep you busy when you need to step away from medicine for a bit. Distribute to a few local bars and restaurants, maybe, or host an event once in a while during the summer or fall." He takes her hands in his and holds her knuckles up to his mouth, grinning helplessly. "I also _totally_ got you a cheese wheel."

Jackson skips on over to the barrel stack, making Maggie laugh so hard she snorts. Oh, he _loves_ that sound.

"Okay, okay, so I've been wanting to share this _forever_ and I can finally get it out." He points to each bottle in turn. "We're a red wine specialty, so pinot noir, merlot and cabernet sauvignon, with a limited edition malbec and a red blend to round things out. I haven't named anything yet because I wanted us to do that together, but I had a few ideas we could start with. Maybe we could do a string of titles based on different blood types? Or if that's too technical, maybe on sensations in the body?"

She's overwhelmed. Maggie puts a hand over her mouth, eyes round as she scans the portfolio in front of her with fresh context. The quaint potted plants filling in the corners and leading up to ceiling ivy. The light strings on the ceiling and the carefully placed paintings from local black and multiracial artists. He shows her the cellar. The patio overseeing the hills and the distant city, a sight that gets even better at night.

"Now we don't have to go all the way up the mountains and fight off bears just to try a charcuterie-" Jackson continues, happily smug-

-and promptly sinks off-balance when Maggie takes his face in both hands and kisses him hard.

" _Mm_."

He's never been happier to be sane.

Jackson grins against her lips, then breathes her in. They indulge in each other for a few heavenly, floaty minutes, then eventually drift over to sample the wine together at the custom flight table (in tiny bottles created for winetasting events). Maggie is _thrilled_ with the pinot noir, happily guessing the flavor notes, then characteristically offers constructive criticism for the merlot. He punches it all into his phone. Whatever she wants, she'll get. Jackson knows his smile is getting dopey as he finishes up his drink, savoring the beautiful warmth taking the edge off his stomach. His shoulder feels downright good, comparatively, but the other two...

"Sabi has only just gotten into wine, your timing is incredible." Maggie crows mid-refill, only to pause. "Wait, you're not on painkillers, are you?"

"Of course not. Can't have them with alcohol." He holds out his glass. "Top me off?"

" _Jackson..._ "

No. It's worth it. Every second. Jackson leans forward and gives her a firm kiss.

"I love you. This is the best day I've had all _month_."

It might be an argument for another time, with the way she struggles between a pout and a smile, and, hell, that's the best expression all month. That someone cares for him enough to be frustrated on his behalf, no strings attached. That smile dips into something a touch more mischievous, then, and it becomes clear he's not the only one who thinks the little lounge is just _begging_ to be broken in. She slips out of her coat and scarf as Jackson tugs the blinds and locks the doors. When he turns back around, shrugging out of his own coat the least painful way possible, he spots a familiar look strewn out on the velvet beneath the low lights.

"...Damn." Is all he can say. Maggie laughs, curling her legs in that perfect, perfect way.

"So...sex in wineries." She muses, the light playing off her skin in twinkling, yellow harmonies. "That's our shiny new thing?"

"Ah, we didn't have sex in the last one." He corrects, starting on his belt and enjoying the indulgent trail of her eyes. "We _wanted_ to have sex in the last one. It also wasn't really a winery, it was a sort of bakery hybrid-"

Maggie puts her chin in one hand, slowly licking the wine stain from her lips.

"That all feels _so_ close to a technicality-"

The second his shoes are off they come together in a thunderclap. Jackson half-sits, half-leans as he kisses merlot into her neck, bites just a _touch_ too hard to get her to gasp. Gets greedy along her collarbone, always covered up in the cold weather. He got the plush couch not just for the decor, but because it's the perfect size, and he's all too happy to admit he's dreamt of this very scenario a few times before. Maggie squirms and soaks in his touch, voice slurring from wine and pleasure.

"You got this couch for sex, didn't you?"

"And here I was thinking I was still a little unpredictable." He nuzzles his face past her hair for his favorite spot beneath her earlobe. "We could do the car, if you want..."

" _Mm-mm._ "

Fine by him. He doesn't think he has the stamina to go back down the hill. Maggie tugs him closer, cheeks rosy and eyes twinkling. Jackson leans on her when she sinks back onto the cushions, spreads her legs-

-then _grimaces_ when his stomach clutches into a white-hot fist.

"Ah, _shit-_ "

Jackson drops his forehead on her shoulder, struggling to catch his breath, a sudden ringing in his ears. ...Okay. Okay. He might've overdone it. Maggie leans up, pressing a hand on his chest.

"Sorry, I just-"

"Let's switch."

Her tone brooks no argument. Jackson promptly (and carefully) rolls over to lay on his back, letting out one tight, shaky breath after another as the pain levels out. Maggie shifts over and straddles him, careful to lean further up on his hips off his bad leg ( _always thinking of him_ ). She's warm where she rocks against him, leaning down so that their noses brush and her curls curtain his vision into dark. He aches anew when she kisses the wound on his shoulder, then back up the cords of his neck to his cheek, his chin. The pain on her face is as plain and cutting as he's ever felt.

"You don't have to hurt yourself to love me properly." She whispers. Jackson holds onto her, rocking against her hips in an uneven, hitching brush.

"Sometimes I need it." He pants. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Her expression is a gentle hurt, for herself and for him. She hooks a finger in his last layer and tugs them down, minding his thigh as she does. "But you need this, too."

This woman's good for him. She always has been. Jackson breathes around the healing in his stomach, neck arching when she lowers down and blurs the pain with tight, wet heat. He claws at her thighs, drags nails down her skin as he tries and fails to thrust, Maggie pressing her hips down until he's a twitching, shaking, trapped mess. Her eyes trail up and down the damage on his body, just before she slides down until her chest is pressed firm against his, elbows curling by his ears. Leaning up and down, up and down. Agonizingly slow and perfectly painful.

When she moans it's music. When she suddenly clenches around him on a perfect stroke it's heaven. The hoarse punch of his breath still hurts, even laying down, but he can't stop, couldn't _dream_ of it. He turns his head to mouth sloppily at her cheek, getting high on the product on her hair, the scent of wine and wood clinging to her skin. Hyperfocusing on the _here_ and _now_ with her skin bunching beneath his nails, riding every new twitch without a shard of glass in sight. Jackson bucks and grunts, surrenders hoarse, strained sounds for her ears only, because that's what she does to him.

Unravels everything he is, one haze at a time.

* * *

_Your looking glass should reflect everything you want and everything you need. If that means shattering it and piecing it back together, then so be it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy festivities! Here's a chapter a day early while you're chipping away at that food coma. I know I am.
> 
> I constantly punch notes into my phone. When you're endlessly bombarded with ideas from showering to doing dishes, you have to record on-the-go or risk losing out on good shit. One of my biggest notes was _Jackson needs to buy his babe a winery._ No ifs, ands or buts. If you've ever wondered how to level up your writing, get comfortable taking notes. Even if you don't use that memorable line or that trippy concept, you can store it in a separate document to reuse somewhere else. Everything is fertilizer. Nothing is wasted!
> 
> One of my favorite things, too, about writing? Being able to read my own work. It's especially good when you put a few weeks or even a few months in-between, then come back with fresh eyes. Feels crisp and shiny and new and you can just get completely sunk all over again. My very own crack cocaine...


	4. only blue cars

**Song Inspiration:** "Trouble Me" by 10,000 Maniacs

*

_trouble me_

_disturb me with all your cares and your worries_

_trouble me on the days when you feel spent_

_why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden, when my back is sturdy and strong_

_trouble me_

*

_Why are you putting it off?_

_It's a question that immediately springs to mind a dozen things, because we have a tendency to procrastinate until the last second. Pride. Fear. Naivete. For whatever reason, we wait until it's too late to make amends or fine-tune a hasty decision. It's a question worth asking again and again, no matter how annoying it gets, until there's nothing left except action. Before the void of regret, sleepless nights and endless what-ifs consume you until there's nothing left. That friend. That family member. That someone._

_Time will always win, in the end, so don't blink. How do you reconcile with the time you have?_

* * *

Jade's success has translated well into the conjoined twins case. That girl remained the superstar of Grey-Sloan.

What a string of events: a lousy spin on the health wheel ended up leading her to becoming a vital contributor to rechargeable hearts research, a double feat in both green tech _and_ heart tech. All the odds had been against her. The girl's body, despite consistent exercise and a young age, went through too much stress after multiple surgeries. It was a case of diminishing returns that saw each following heart having to work overtime, struggling against weakened tissue and a withering immune system. As was becoming the Pierce repertoire, this was thin air transformed into gold. Her ever-failing heart was the catalyst to craft a more sensitive _and_ more durable version of the rechargeable heart patent, a pay-it-forward of good luck on bad luck.

Every day after she wheeled that girl out of the operating room she's taken a few seconds every morning to thank all that is good and right with the world. That Jade had been brave _and_ stout enough to face the uncertainty of new technology not just for herself, but all to follow. That her parents had trusted their heart doctor, despite having the most superficial knowledge of artificial hearts and the uncertain future they suggested. All those bad turns and close calls had practically promised the burning out of that superstar. Optimism has never been easier since.

...And yet.

"It's going to be hard to pump blood that isn't in the body." Maggie mutters, raising a hand to her chin. "They're just so _small_. There will be so little wiggle room when they start to bleed out during surgery."

Bailey leans back on her heels, one hand curled under her chin in a mirror image.

"You really think the transfusion will cause too much stress?" She shifts from heel-to-heel. "There must be a way to maintain just enough blood in the body. At least, providing that failing liver doesn't keel in the middle of it."

Maggie closes her eyes. She's quietly glad Jackson isn't working at the hospital now, for more reasons than one. She wouldn't want him to be anywhere near a dying newborn.

"It's definitely a possibility." She opens them again, her emotions carefully blunted until she can confront them off-the-clock. "Right alongside all the _other_ little possibilities."

The woman beside her goes quiet, scanning the slides back-and-forth in a focused metronome. She must be feeling some of that pain, too. Her miscarriage happened months back, but from what she's heard from those who've been through it? That grief can be fresh for _years_. Maggie tries not to glance too obviously at her chief, thinking back to her requested check-up that weekday afternoon. Bailey had complained of hot flashes and headaches, convinced there was something odd with her heart when it'd been something funny with her hormones. It'd _been_ funny, at the time, seeing the normally unflappable doctor so flustered at something so ordinary.

Then she'd bled on the floor in-between a shift, and there hasn't been anything funny about it since.

It was such a cruel twist of fate, though perhaps still kinder than what Jackson and April had to go through. They'd _held_ that little life in their hands, watched him fade away breath by breath, while Bailey's remained a dream. All these depressing thoughts sting her chest something terrible, yet she can't help but follow the threads to their snaggled, nasty ends as she looks from one dismal scan to the other. Should the twins come out alive, a result still _very_ much at the mercy of science and hope...how would they be treated?

Would remote learning be better for them, intellectually and emotionally? Bullying never needed much encouragement to begin with and they would practically have a bullseye scrawled on their shared heart. Would they constantly be the subject of documentaries instead of moving through a low-key and supportive childhood? _That_ one was a given. What about their parents, young and inexperienced and likely without the funds for the guaranteed complications? This has contributed to more than a few troubled nights. Falling asleep usually wasn't that hard for her, until this case landed on her desk.

"I won't lie, I'm...a _little_ more concerned about the parents than the child." Maggie admits. "An even more snazzy rechargeable heart somehow seems possible, but the future..."

"Tch, I'm more worried about Webber." Bailey clicks her tongue. "Man's been more rigid than a pool cue these past few weeks. You got the easy job wrangling twenty-somethings, meanwhile I'm over here banging my head on a brick wall whenever he refuses to take a lunch break."

Maggie grimaces. He's overworking? She's got more than a few guesses why _that_ is. Catherine must be in a pretty miserable state. She was forever a professional woman, juggling a thousand obligations on an average day throughout her hospital chain, but she was still a mother. Jackson leaving the foundation and the family...well. It's not the kind of gossip she wants to get into now.

"I blame Jackson." Bailey concludes, right on time, giving her a nudge with her elbow. "Ever since he left people have been moping for one reason or another. Guess I underestimated him as the glue of this place, hm?"

Maggie sighs. She won't lie. Even though she lives with him, she still misses passing by him in the hallway or chatting over scans. It's not related to what Bailey's talking about, though, and she doesn't feel like correcting her.

"You and me both. Anyway. I have to go see Rose." She grabs her tablet. "I'll update you after the screening, if I have the time."

"All right. Just don't go weird on me, too." Bailey mutters, turning back to the wall with her arms crossed. "...Get enough of that at home."

Rose is nearing the point of her extended hospital stay. Twins were, appropriately, twice as much trouble _without_ being conjoined or having hemophilia and a failing liver. The woman, so far, has arrived to each appointment on time, but remained a contradiction of aloofness and determination concerning her babies. Should they even come out alive, it's a gamble whether she'd be able to afford their medical bills or home equipment. Her paperwork came back barely filled out, so it's a topic she has no choice but to bring up again during the check-up.

"They're probably not even going to survive." Rose says, flatly. Maggie holds up a quick finger.

"If they _do_ , though..."

Parker is back to remote duty. He fiddles with it in both hands, politely averting his eyes as Rose stares at the screen, one hand holding her bump. It's larger than ever, perpetually swaddled in a thick knit sweater or blankets.

"...well. You're the doctor. Is there some big, special insurance company I could sign up for? Something to help me out?"

"You have a few options. Since this is a medically unique surgery we cover those costs, but aftercare might be a different story. The woes of the American medical healthcare system." Maggie thinks back to Meredith's jail stint, not happily, and continues. "One option, in particular, is a worker's insurance. It says on your paperwork you're unemployed..." She trails off, waiting for Rose to interject or add some thoughts. When all she gets is a dull stare she continues. "...so do you have anyone else in your life that might be open to switching plans? Something their job could maybe cover?"

The woman takes a few moments to consider. A troubled look flickers across her face.

"...My boyfriend has a part-time. Moving, uh, people's furniture. It's shit, but it pays the bills." She shrugs, a motion so slow and dull it's probably cost her energy for the day. "Somewhat."

Maggie glances at Parker. His face is carefully placid, but he hikes up one careful eyebrow. Yeah. Not good. It's never an easy question, but it's one she has to ask. She sucks in a careful breath and puts on a smile.

"In the event they survive, have you...considered adoption?"

Rose's jaw twists. She fixes her with a hard stare.

"... _No_."

The woman shifts and inches up her little pillow tower so she's sitting more upright, as best she can over her stomach.

"Do _you_ have kids?"

Maggie leans back a little. Where did _this_ fire come from?

"Uh...not...really? I mean, I'm kind of an aunt to a few children-"

"But you're not a _mother_."

No. She's not. She's been an aunt. A little sister. A mutant hybrid of medical professional, sister figure and not-quite-mentor. A quick thought flits across her vision, as quick as a fish. It's of Jackson, cradling a little brown baby in his arms, downy hair peeking out from beneath a hospital standard beanie. It's tempting to stare. Maggie turns away from it, back to the flinty brown eyes fixed her way.

"I've...thought about becoming a mother." She admits. "More than once."

Both of Parker's eyebrows pop up now. It takes her breath away, to admit it out loud. Rose, however, is less than impressed.

"Great. So you thinking about it means you also think I _can't_ be one."

_What?_ That's the furthest thing possible from what she's implying! She's doing her job as a surgeon, which means thinking about everyone in the process. Those twins weren't twins yet, but the second they're out in the world they're people who deserved a fighting chance. That meant medically, that meant legally. That meant socially.

"It's a valid question when conjoined twins with health problems are difficult for most people-" Maggie starts, only for Rose to break that brutal gaze, snipping the conversation in half like paper.

"I'm keeping them. If they even live." The fire flickers out of her gaze, back to sullen in a beat. "Anyway. Share with me that insurance or whatever. I'll pass it along."

Unfortunately, the clock agrees with her. Maggie tries to keep her frustration off her face as she fills out the rest of the patient report. What did she expect? She's twenty-four, out of the job and with a boyfriend who, by her own admission, can barely pay her bills. If this child survives they're going to need more than just strict medical attention. They're going to need twice as much attention. Twice as much protection. Conjoined twins of any stripe have a high likelihood of prematurity, which leads to complications down the line like physical and mental health problems.

The words die on her tongue as she double-checks for typos. Their check-up is up. There are other patients who need to be seen.

"Can I get something to eat now?" Rose asks, rubbing her eyes in a sudden, rare display of exhaustion. "These cravings suck."

Parker stays with her for the rest of the day. Maggie, on the other hand, pours herself into her research. Vetting residents with the most promising skillsets toward rechargeable heart surgery. Assisting a quick surgery on a patient with half their femur jutting out of their thigh. Lunch is a better affair than usual at a surprise package from Jackson, and she does a fairly decent job distracting herself for a thirty-minute period over a game of dominoes with the interns. In the back of her mind, though, her worries can't help but simmer hot. Thoughts about her childhood. Her gifts and her stumbles.

Of all the things that went right, and all the things that went wrong.

***

_did my lunch deliver?, Jackson, 1:12 p.m._

_It did, thank you so much!! That sandwich and coffee really hit the spot., Maggie, 1:14 p.m._

_good. take it easy when you get off. gonna be on a run when you get back, but i have some raspberry chicken pasta salad in the fridge., Jackson, 1:15 p.m._

_Ooh!! You made that again? I looove that recipe. Are you sure about running, though? How's your leg and shoulder doing?, Maggie, 1:17 p.m._

_good. sore., Jackson, 1:24 p.m._

***

Rose's boyfriend visits for the first time at the very end of her first month as an official patient of the hospital, when she's getting her bloodwork done and getting another scan for her twins. It's also the first time she's seen her smile.

"I think that's the first time I've seen her smile." Parker mutters out of the side of his mouth. Maggie puts on a tight grin.

"Unprofessional." She whispers, pretending to scratch her nose. "But you're right."

Liam. A man who could blend in with a 90's British punk-rock group with the ease of a chameleon, if he wanted. The rips in his skinny jeans are large enough they could be their own Whack-A-Mole attraction. She wishes Jackson were here to get his opinion, since apparently he went through a _huge_ punk phase in high school (with a rumored box filled with signed Depeche Mode and Arctic Monkey shirts). Instead she contents herself to not-quite-watch as they take a few spare minutes to catch up, flicking through her medical updates thus far in the corner.

"God, you look like a Macy's Day balloon."

"Fuck you, dude."

Rose slaps his arm, without much force, and squirms in a struggling attempt to accommodate herself. Her stomach is already showing the telltale bulge of the beginning of the third trimester. She's seeing limitations in her mobility, no doubt hampered by her less-than-stellar health. Her bloodwork has come back particularly low on vitamin D, with a white blood cell count that could be better. It might be prudent to give her diet chart another tweak. Liam tugs off his cap, revealing a shock of messy black hair, and uses it to fan her.

"I'm not even _hot_ , knock that off." Rose grumps. He withdraws it an inch, still fanning tentatively.

"You look hot, babe."

"I'm not. _You_ look hot." She frowns, reaching up to snatch it out of his fingers and slap it back on his head. "You should be wearing another jacket soon, though. It's going to get colder."

Parker catches her eye and mouths a silent _aww_ where the two can't see. Okay. That's enough catching up. Maggie clears her throat. Liam straightens up by her bedside.

"So. I think it's important to review what to expect after the babies are born. You've already been briefed on the current complications..." She trails off, just to see where they have and haven't discussed things. Liam nods fervently. "Good. Remember, you can always ask if you have questions. It's my job to keep track of it all. You still have the pamphlets we handed out?"

"Yeah, I do. Um...do sickly, uh...hemophilia babies with electric hearts...need different diets than normal babies?" He starts, tilting his head. "I mean, besides breastfeeding and stuff. I know that's better for children than canned stuff."

Oh, boy. He looks completely lost at sea. Rose reaches up to pull her curls into a ponytail.

"Our babies _are_ normal, Liam." She huffs. "They just need...help."

"Right." He agrees, cheerfully enough. "Help."

Maggie studies the two. It's hard not to think of Amelia and Link. They'd practically redefined what it meant to stumble into having a baby, and yet...they've managed with shining colors. Moved out of the sisterhouse, nabbed their own place, set up a give-and-take system that's held up in their larger network nicely. It wasn't an entirely impossible concept. Just...mostly. Highly. Very much _skewed_ toward it.

"I've been reading a ton of articles on conjoined twins. I watched some videos on the bus ride here, actually." Liam pulls out his phone, tapping in the password. "Actually, I'll come back tomorrow, if that's okay. I changed my schedule so I can have more time here."

He winces when Rose smacks his arm again.

"Wait, you took off _another_ day?" She hisses. "We can't afford that."

"I did it so I could visit you..." He says, holding up an arm in retaliation for another. "It's just a few days."

Parker coughs into his shoulder. It sounds an awful lot like: " _Young love_."

Looks like she'd be juggling two disasters. Maggie beckons for him to get comfortable and sit, which he does next to the bed, reaching out to hold Rose's hand (which she begrudgingly takes).

"I'm not here to tell you you're a bad future father or that you're a bad mother." She says to each in turn. "I want what's best for everyone. It's easy...to be ruled by your hopes and fears, at this stage of the pregnancy. It can lead you all over the place, everywhere except where you need to be. Trust that you can be scared right now. That there's nothing wrong with what you're feeling."

"I'm pretty scared. Not going to lie." Liam says, hunching his shoulders with a laugh.

"I'm not." Rose mutters, scratching her nose. "They're just babies."

Parker coughs again, and heck if she can tell what he's saying now. She knows she's getting old when these two adults look like children to her. It seems she would be getting a lot of hindsight moments these days. Maggie waits until they're both looking at her.

"They're just babies with an _astronomical_ journey ahead of them. We're not just preparing for a surgery here, but for the rest of your lives. That means taking everything into account, even when it's uncomfortable."

"What our doctor is trying to say is that we'd make shitty parents." Rose drawls. "Even though she's never been one."

Maggie bristles. Parker sucks in a sharp breath. Liam is clearly used to his girlfriend's lack of inhibition, because he promptly stands up and exaggerates a stretch.

"Actually, uh, could you show me the twins' scans, Dr. Pierce? I'm kind of behind on how they're doing and want to catch up. I'm a total pleb on medical terminology, too, so please use layman's terms."

It's not the resounding success of a session well-done. Rose stares off at the window as she flicks through the diagrams, explaining the black and white to Liam's rapt attention. It was going to be a long, and too short, trimester.

***

Maggie knows her therapist is the cream of the crop when she _doesn't_ drop her coffee mug upon hearing what happened to her boyfriend.

"Oh...my _goodness._ He was in the middle of that?" She hovers hands over her laptop, eyes bulging with potential. "Do you...want to talk about it?"

"Yes, please."

She daintily presses a key in a gesture to continue. Maggie wrings her hands, trying to remember all the notes she scribbled down on that napkin in the car. It was only a matter of time until it was brought up, as tempting as it was to put it off and make it a little less real.

"Is it...wrong to be a little afraid of where we go from here?" She asks, softly. It feels awful, saying it out loud, but it's the truth. "We...we had a _huge_ falling out a year and a half ago, roughly. A lot of it was caused by this exact thing. This, um. Shooting." She heaves a sigh. "I never would've dreamed it could happen again."

" _Again?_ " Penny repeats. To her credit, she regains her composure quickly. "Okay. Start from the top. Why are you afraid? Is it of him or what could happen to your relationship or..."

Maggie stares at the carpet. They're just a month into counseling, and the most she's shared of Jackson is his occupation, a few choice personality traits and how dear he is to her. It's hard to condense so, _so_ much in the span of their session, but she's a doctor. Half her job is condensing the impossible and translating it for outside ears. So she shares. She shares the proverbial comet that shattered her life to pieces, starting with the broken hospital window, then the broken man in the parking lot of Grey-Sloan. The loss of his son, the divorce, his lifelong family pressure like something out of an audio drama.

Penny's face is an impeccable glade over the glow of her laptop, not betraying anything now, and she's grateful. It's too easy to want to clamp up right now.

She talks about his time at the ward, a period that was simultaneously one of the most painful things she's ever gone through and one of the most helpful experiences he could've had. She talks about the _literal_ comet that struck during their cruise on his boat (with Penny looking near to fainting when she was mentions she was nearly in the middle of it all). She details the shooting at Grey-Sloan and how he was caught in the crossfire, which doesn't need too much embellishing since _anyone_ who's lived in Seattle for a few years knows about that infamous day.

It's messy and slapdash, but as honest as she's ever been. By the time she's finished she feels like she needs a nap.

"... _Wow_." Penny leans up a little to better observe what must be a mess of notes on her screen. "That's...a lot."

"Yeah." Maggie wilts, beyond even a shred of good humor. "It's...a lot." She covers her face. " _He's_ a lot, and I mean that in the best way."

Her therapist takes a few minutes to think about it all.

"It's perfectly natural to be afraid." She says, eventually. "He was badly hurt, then hurt you. Unfortunately, there is some truth to the saying that hurt people hurt people. Your fear here is not selfishness or dismissiveness, but a self-love instinct with the self-preservation that comes with it. In other words, it's trying to keep those horrible events from happening again."

"But he's been doing so much better." Maggie protests. "He's shown _up_ for me, again and _again_ , in more ways than I can count. He communicates with me, he attends every single therapy session. He even went and got another therapist after being discharged from the ward, even though he was embarrassed he didn't make as much progress as he wanted."

"But?" Penny cocks her head. "I hear a but in there."

Maggie wonders if she's going to need some salve for all the hand wringing she's been doing. It feels awful to say. Like she's mocking him and all he's struggled through behind his back.

"I know mental health...can be a mountain. It's easier to slip back down then climb back up."

"Not a bad metaphor." Penny agrees. "I got one a little better. From the sounds of it, he's up against two titans. All the good, strong change he's gone through up against the recent reopening of a new trauma and a few lifestyle changes that go against his _entire_ sense of self. So he's got a lot against him, but a lot on his side at the same time." She taps her chin with one sparkly fingernail. "I won't lie, he sounds like a badass."

Maggie sputters a laugh, breaking her staring contest with the carpet.

"Okay. Is that a professional opinion?"

"Sort of." She chuckles, though her next words hit hard. "The thing with our everyday badasses is it's easy for us to forget how much they have to shoulder. Them included. He's going to have more moments of weakness, guaranteed, and it's okay to admit you won't always have the tools. In fact, that's why he's still going to therapy and why you started. None of you are alone in this."

It's so...frank and optimistic. Maggie tries to hold onto the sentiment. Tries to bottle it up in the icy fear that's settled in her chest ever since she saw him bruised and battered and zoning out in the hospital. Her throat closes up, sharp and hot, and she can't gulp it away.

"I'm afraid it's going to take him away again." She whispers. "That'll he'll look at me like he hates me...again."

The woman doesn't speak, but her expression is pure understanding. Maggie nods to herself, physically pushing the logic through her. She hadn't been alone last time, during that long and lonely autumn where everything seemed to be an obstacle. She's not alone here, in another autumn and another time. There's still a lingering ache. Low in her soul for a while now. Maybe that has to stay. Stay until it gets better, in that way time can only do.

"If it helps...whenever I do something a little scary?" Penny offers. "I pair it with something _else_ that freaks me out. It's a helpful tactic for people with anxiety because it makes you lose track of why you were procrastinating in the first place. Just jumble up all those pesky fears until you can't focus on any one of them."

Maggie considers.

"Well. On that subject, there's...something else I wanted to bring up, before I go." She admits. "I need a little extra encouragement, because it's kind of been years since I've spoken with him."

Good therapy can't thrive without a good life. After her appointment she swings by to see Meredith, because it's been too long since they've had one-on-one time, and it's always at an odd hour the existential fears kick in, anyway. The sisterhouse is quiet when she steps inside, no less homely, the fireplace alive and crackling for what will likely be a few months straight. Maggie digs in the cupboard for that dark hot chocolate she's been craving. It's the special thing about this place. No matter how much time she's away, it never feels like she left.

On their first cup Maggie relays that conversation she had with Amelia last year, where she'd asked about Owen and how similar their situations ended up being. On the second cup Meredith suggests she gives Christina a call. Severe PTSD from his time in the military wasn't even the thing that ended _either_ of their relationships, she notes drily, quiet grudge alive and kicking. It's a hopeful detail, in a...sad sort of way. Maggie says as much, which gets her a classic scoff. It's the same tone she hears over the phone when their call goes through, their stroke of luck hitting right at midnight like something out of a book.

" _Hope's a nice way of looking at it. He strangled me in the middle of the night, because he thought the ceiling fan was a sign he was back there, in the middle of it all. The man, for a moment, really, truly thought I was an enemy to be snuffed out as quickly as possible. Jackson, when I was still working at the hospital, never crossed as many lines as Owen. From what I remember and what you've told me. Maybe that'll be enough to hold onto hope. Ideally, you'll have a little more than hope to work with._ "

***

Catherine asks to speak with her Monday morning, right after an EKG with a new patient and an artificial heart consultation with an older man.

The joy at her flourishing patent is quickly dampened at the sight of those sharp eyes tracking her every move like one of those haunted house portraits. Oh, how she _loathes_ tiptoeing around her work environment. This is precisely one of the fears that nearly kept her from dating Jackson in the first place: the _mess_. There was enough of that during her college days as the baby classmate surrounded by twenty and thirty-somethings, and she'd been all too happy to graduate early. As life would have it, the awkward conversations and too-long stares have swung right back around in a professional sequel.

Maggie nearly exhausts her social backpack trying to feign distraction every time she's out in the open, checking her phone or briskly walking off before she can be properly accosted. It's not like she could exactly tell her to leave. This is _her_ hospital. Has been for a few years, ever since she swooped in and saved it from near dissolution at the last second. At one point she outright hides in the bathroom, which won't go down in history as one of her finest moments.

Jackson set boundaries early. Quite a few of them not long after he left the ward, insisting on fewer family visits and rarely answering his phone (irregardless of who was calling). His mother had called on her for a seemingly friendly catch up over brunch that turned into a subtle interview about all the minor and major details of her son's life. At the time it was frustrating. A little infuriating, even. Now she can't help but feel like a soggy piece of bread in the middle of a lake, stuck between one miserable end and the other. Every hopeful glance her way she thinks of her own mother, showing up at Grey-Sloan with a pink shawl and an outstretched heart.

It's only when she looks away does she see Jackson on her spare bed at the sisterhouse, sleeping more peacefully than she'd ever seen him.

He'd taken some time to share what he went through at the ward in detail. At the time she couldn't even fulfill his mother's requests for insider knowledge as he chipped away at his own secrecy. In hindsight, she sees why. If he (or she) let just _one_ thing slip, he'd be back at square one. After _all_ that hard work. Maggie rolls and folds a preparation speech in her head over the following days in-between more immediate thoughts, accepting the future awkward conversation as inevitable. It's just as well. As punctual as the sun Catherine appears beside her at the front desk as she's making a confirmation on an incoming patient, like she'd been there the whole time.

"Maggie?" She places a gentle hand on her forearm. "I'm sorry to bother you, I know you're busy. May we talk for a minute?"

Maggie puts on a bright smile to cover up the still very immediate urge to jump out of her skin. _She didn't even hear her come up_. Again, she won't tell him this, but Jackson's proverbial apple really didn't fall far from this tree.

"If it's about bringing on help for rechargeable hearts research or improving the newly renovated cafeteria, absolutely." She flips off her tablet and tosses a thumb over one shoulder. "I also wouldn't mind discussing the menu of the renovated cafeteria. The salads really should use romaine over iceberg. That stuff's like chewing on frozen napkins."

"While that is a _solid_ point..." Catherine starts, tilting her head sweetly. "...I was thinking more in terms of my newly renovated son."

Of course. What else would it be? Maggie lets herself be led to the front doors by the lobby, where foot traffic has slowed down in the (fortunately) lazy afternoon. The woman gives a polite nod to an incoming elderly couple before folding her hands together, holding her firm in a gaze all too familiar in this building. The one that can command attention in a room without a word.

"It's been a while since we've really talked, Maggie." She starts, giving her a careful once-over. "How have you been doing?"

"It's been pretty crazy, I won't lie." Maggie shifts from foot-to-foot. "This current case is taking up all of my energy, even at home. Much less recording all the progress of our interns so we don't fall behind on advanced surgical tech with all these new flu cases..."

"I can see that." She nods, firmly. "Trust that I would have no one else approaching a case like this."

Then, without missing a beat:

"And how is he doing? Jackson?"

Here it is. Maggie squares up her shoulders, taking in a deep breath.

"Catherine, I really think-"

" _My son got shot_."

Maggie freezes. It's only a whisper, yet her voice seems to fill the entire lobby. If Rose's stare had been prickly during her last check-up, Catherine's is the entire desert cactus.

"My son nearly got snuffed out in broad daylight and he won't give me a damn _call_. I've hardly been able to sleep ever since I got that horrible news. He wouldn't even let me attend the _court case-_ " She cuts herself off just as her voice starts to rise. One hand raises up and out, palm forward as if to press her own anger down. "...I'm more than aware of the side-effects of severe mental illness, Maggie. I know how it can make you react unpredictably, push people away. Maybe fail to recognize them. You might even know that better than I do."

Maggie's mouth tightens. He didn't recognize much when he got behind that 'glass', but that's a side-effect they work through every time it rears its head. What he's doing _now_ , though, is the opposite of that dissociation. It's the active decision to protect his peace.

"First I watched him try to peel his own _skin_ off in a psychiatric ward. Now I'm standing on the outside looking in while he recovers from gunshot wounds and goodness knows how many nightmares." Catherine folds her hands again. "So, and I will ask one more time...how is my stubborn, secretive, sick son _doing?_ "

"I can't...I can't _talk_ about that." Maggie raises her hands helplessly. "I already _told_ you, Catherine. That's not my place."

"It _is_ your place. We're family." She shakes her head in exasperation. "Why can't you just share some simple information? If he's...eating well or sleeping well or...anything like that? You told me to talk to him when he's ready, but now he might as well be a ghost!"

Guilt flutters her heart at that. Well, it's outdated advice. That was _before_ she knew he was cutting her off for good. When he'd originally been terrified at the mere prospect of quitting Grey-Sloan, much less saying no to his own mother once in a while. It's Maggie's turn to give her a once-over. She's an impeccable woman, stunning in her soft smoky eye and matching cardigan, but the shadows beneath her eyes peer through the foundation like soil beneath a thin snowfall. It can't hurt to be honest right now. What could be so bad about a basic fact?

"He's...he's honestly doing great, Catherine." Maggie admits. "Better than he has in months. Sometimes it amazes me how much progress he's made."

It's the wrong thing to say. Catherine's eyes grow round, staring at her and through her at the same time.

"...Great?" She repeats, in slow horror. "Then...then why does he act like he doesn't even know me?"

Oh, god. Maggie rolls her lips tight. Why is she so bad at keeping her mouth shut? When Catherine comes back to herself she's righteous indignation in a button-up blazer, holding up a shaking finger.

"If you won't tell me what I need to know, I'll have no choice but to find out on my own. You know this. Make this easier on all of us."

_Now_ Maggie loses her patience.

"Why are you putting all of this on _me?_ "

"Because Richard won't talk to me, either!" She snaps. "Neither will Ben or Bailey. I can't even ask April, since they only see each other for parent swap meets. Oh, what _is_ this, Maggie? It's as if I've become the city's public enemy overnight. I don't know what the hell I did to deserve this, but I'm not about to fold now." She lifts her chin with a familiar, brutal finality. "I have a meeting to get to. If you feel like showing me a little respect, you know my number."

She watches her leave with a fresh lead weight in her chest. ...It's official. This is one of the worst days of her year.

Maggie takes her lunch a few minutes early, slumping on a bench outside with a bagel to stare at the browning leaves without much heart. She can't bring this up to Jackson. Not now, with so much on his plate. Then again, if she doesn't, he's going to find out at the worst time. Would it even be a surprise, with his mother's track record of following his every twitch and blink? One thought leads to another as the chill swirls around her, scuffling the dried leaves into the grass. She stares at her phone as she chews and doesn't really taste, locking and unlocking it over and over.

...Scary thing number one already happened today. Maybe scary thing number two will help. She punches in the number, jiggles her leg and stares hard at nothing as the phone rings. Jackson was trying to live without his mother. Here she was trying to bring her father back into her life. It's not the first time this irony has struck her, but this time it's hitting the hardest. When the ringing stops she redials again with a shaky finger. She's put it off long enough. She has to start somewhere. It rings again.

...And rings.

...And rings.

And-

" _...Hello?_ "

The world stops. It feels like the split second before an avalanche, all suspension and nothing but an awful drop. Maggie opens her mouth-

-hits the end call button-

-and buries her face in both hands.

Oh, what was she _thinking?_ There's nothing she can say that will make sense in the next twenty minutes. Not when her cowardice and grief and the topsy-turvy spin of life have slotted an impenetrable wall between her and him. Her mother's death came off the tail of what had long since been a strained long-distance relationship. Strained because she still loved her, so much, and he was still hurt by what she did. So...much. The last she's seen him in-person was that surprise plane ride offered by Webber. The last time she held him in her arms.

It's all a lot she doesn't know what to do with, and it weighs her down as she slinks back into the hospital to finish her lunch break working. Her chest ripples with its first crumble when she sees Jackson in the lobby, leaning against the counter and chatting animatedly with Parker. When he spots her over the man's shoulder he beams, wide and sincere.

"Hey!"

"...Hey."

His smile fades. Just like that, he knows. Parker gives them space, pulling out his phone and offering a canned line about 'having something to do'. Maggie beckons Jackson to the elevator...then blinks when it opens and reveals a dozen children in birthday hats flanked by an older woman.

"Sorry." She apologizes, around a noisemaker cocked in her mouth like a cigar. "We have a party on the top floor for one of the patients..."

They both sidle as best they can into the cramped square, the children squeaking happily among themselves with handfuls of little presents, confetti poppers and streamers. For a moment her dour heart lifts. Oh, her ovaries are going to slap the _nonsense_ out of her once they leave. Her baby fever has only gotten worse with Amelia's chubby-cheeked cherub and her regular visits with Harriet. She waits for Jackson to catch her gaze, then:

" _They're so cute._ ", Maggie mouths over their bouncing heads. Jackson grins crookedly and mouths back.

" _I know._ "

Celebrity doesn't follow Jackson at a certain age. One of the kids turns around to show off their hat, following up with a comment about his height and how he 'managed to fit'. Jackson puts on an exaggerated gasp, stressing he can't hear them 'from all the way down there'. Maggie crosses her arms and watches with a helpless smile, committing the sight to memory for a future bad day. The group gets off before their stop, managing a rather impressive single-file despite their excitement.

The next floor is theirs. They trail a little glitter on their quiet way to one of the empty spare rooms. Jackson even holds a hand up to his face, like a celebrity being followed by paparazzi, and she can't help but laugh. They wait for a nurse to pass, then slip inside. Jackson promptly shuts the door, locks it tight and gathers her up in his arms before she can get any of the words out. As her mother would say: _bless his soul._. Maggie grips his shoulders and buries her face in his collar, that perfect, warm, soft spot that helps keeps her from spinning. He smells like aftershave and coffee and fall leaves.

"Hard day?"

"Long, hard, _weird_ day."

"Oh, even better."

Maggie lets out a muffled scoff. Jackson chuckles against her ear and squeezes her harder. At least _one_ of them was in a good mood. He kisses her cheek, one hand sliding up her back to stroke where her hair meets the nape of her neck. Tiny touches that she needs even more than food. She shifts a little, just enough to let in a little pocket of air while still happily suffocating in him. She'll eventually have to share that unsettling talk with his mother, but that can wait. Not with how cheerful he looks today.

"How're classes going?" She mumbles against his collar. Jackson burrows his nose into her curls and sighs a happy breath. It's a sweet relief that nips the back of her mind at that, tinged as it is with a mild shade of guilt. His mood swings these past few weeks have been perfectly justifiable, but no less nervewracking to deal with.

"My brain feels like it's about to break. I used to be able to cram just about anything a decade ago, but now..."

"I can imagine. You went from a stressful full-time job to a more laid-back full-time school schedule."

"Yeah. It's good, though. I forgot how much I missed being in class." He tucks a stray coil behind her ear and leans back a little, smiling in that certain way that makes her want to cry. "Your turn. What's wrong?"

"I...called my dad. A few minutes ago." Her chest burns with shame. "Or...I tried to. I kind of hung up when he answered."

Jackson doesn't say anything, probably because he's in the middle of the complete _opposite_ with his mother, but she can feel the sympathy in his heartbeat.

"One step at a time." He says, thoughtfully, reaching up to fiddle with one of her curls.

"But it takes too _long_." She protests, the sorry image of Catherine's hurt face flashing in her mind. "I've already waited too long."

"You called him, though. You punched in those numbers, hit send and he picked up. That's huge." When she just frowns miserably he places a gentle hand under her chin and nudges her gaze up. "Maggie. That's _huge_."

God, he really has become the spitting image of inner peace. Maggie lets out a shaky sigh and fiddles with his collar. ...Maybe. Maybe is all she can manage for today, and Jackson shows off his merciful side, too, when he moves his hand back to her shoulders to rub at the tension there. Maggie sways again.

"You got a few more get-well letters." She adds, tiredly. Jackson huffs.

"Aw. I'll have to make room on the corkboard."

Despite her exhaustion, Maggie leans back and studies him. Phew. What a difference space and healing make on a person. Without meaning to her hands drift up to his coat lapels, adjusting them with affectionate little tweaks. Jackson watches her all the while, eyes filling up with that soft, drunk love whenever she indulges in this habit.

"How much time do you have left on your break?" He murmurs, hand moving up and down her side in slow repetitions.

"Thirty-three minutes." She reaches up to slide a thumb along his beardline. "I asked for a little extra time, since my next consult is running late as it is..."

"Perfect."

She knows exactly what he's suggesting. It's the perfect deja vu for the day. She pulls out her phone and sets it to vibrate, then sets it down on one of the little side-tables. It's best to keep the lights off. Just in case.

"Bed?"

"Yeah. Don't feel like standing..."

It's only when she slouches back on the little cot does she truly realize just how _long_ she's been standing. The best worker shoes can't quite beat back the bone-deep throbbing in the soles of her feet.

"Ow." She gripes. Jackson quirks a sympathetic brow.

"You can say that again."

Maggie gets herself comfortable against the wall. Jackson is content to kneel on the floor, despite his still-healing wound. Before she can protest he's settling between her open legs and pressing a warm kiss into her inner thigh. It's the magic touch. She relaxes her shoulders and leans her head back as he works at her belt buckle with quick tugs. He may have resigned almost a month ago, but the instinct to be quick in quiet spaces hasn't left. She shudders at the press of his hands on her bare skin, then _gasps_ at the shock of his tongue. As efficient as he ever was.

Jackson once told her he hated his head being touched. It was always associated with something condescending or dehumanizing, such as the disaffected pats from his grandfather or fetishizing touches from white roommates. He never minded hers, though. Maggie savors the soft sounds he makes in the back of his throat, then runs fingers through his coils, biting back her own huffs when he switches from lips to tongue and back again. It's her physical way of telling him he's perfect. She can feel him smile, a brief note of teeth before it's back to soft.

Back to warm.

Jackson makes her dinner later. A menagerie of fancied up breakfast food, specifically, because the beautiful Seattle almost-autumn days were still no match for creature comforts with a dash of bougie. The kitchen is filled to the brim with the scent of cinnamon and molasses, tinged with the mouthwatering tang of bourbon apple sage bacon. Jackson lets her float around him and sample the sliced peppers he's sprinkling into the omelette mix. He lets her hug his waist, too, but insists on doing all the work when she reaches for the whisk. When he reaches up to rub at his injured shoulder, though...

"Jackson, if that's hurting you I can take over." She offers.

"You've done enough for today." He responds, smoothly, holding up a threatening fork. "Don't make me rub your feet, too."

Maggie rolls her eyes. To think, he had the audacity of calling _her_ stubborn. She plucks one more pepper, then sits down at the dining table, leaning down to rotate a thumb where her arch begins.

"Do we still have epsom salt, actually? They really _are_ killing me."

"I still have half a tub." She hears the soft _whirr_ of the whisk starting up. "One foot rub session, coming up."

Maggie's chest knots up a little. She leans back up, putting a frown in her voice.

"You don't have to do all this..."

Jackson doesn't respond. He's not spacing out -- she can tell by the tilt of his head -- but he's holding onto the silence meaningfully. She won't dare say it out loud, but he really was _so_ much like his mother in that regard. The pan sizzles with the omelette mix, followed by the fading hiss of bacon reaching peak readiness. Maggie chews on her lip, affectionately frustrated. This darn man. He finally breaks the silence when he walks over with a full plate and slides it in front of her.

"...Of course I don't _have_ to do all this. I _want_ to. Taking care of you makes me whole." He takes her hand and kisses her palm, eyes flicking up over the curve of her thumb. "Please let me."

Maybe that's why she's feeling so tentative about it all. What she wants to ask could snatch that soft, soft light from his eyes, even as she wants so _badly_ for it to be a happy thing. She catches Jackson's brows crinkling when he returns to the kitchen for his plate, taking a brief moment to wipe down the counter with a damp rag.

"Maggie, you okay?"

She holds out a hand for him to sit. He does (wincing a little, he _really_ needs to stay off that leg), nudging his chair over until their hips are almost touching. She beckons for them to eat, which he obliges. His eyes never really leave her, but his mood is easy, and she savors it.

"You would make a food photographer so happy right now." Maggie mumbles around a mouthful, carefully dicing up a little of the strawberries to go with the next bite. "God, this is good. You really outdid yourself."

"Thanks." Jackson grins around his fork. "This time with 100% less spontaneous stovetop fire."

"Oh, don't remind me." She snorts, shoveling in a huge bite. " _What a day_."

Eating out at five-star restaurants is always wonderful, but she wouldn't trade these quiet home dinners for anything in the world. He's dimmed the kitchen lights, drenching them in a warm glow that doesn't quite reach the corners of the room. It's a warm bath of future fond memories as they talk about this and that. Jackson's gaze flicks over to her every now and again, separate from their spirited conversation about the latest developments in regenerative makeup foundation. Quietly wondering when she'll spill the beans. Maggie nudges her knee against his, just to let him know it's nothing quite so serious, and he nudges back.

"That vitamin C serum you use really helps..." Jackson murmurs thoughtfully, rubbing at his face where his scars used to be. They're only visible to a lingering glance now, which...is probably all of them, with how handsome he is. "But for deeper scarring it could be a gamechanger in the industry. Maybe _too_ much, if it gives people a reason not to wear foundation..."

His eyes glitter in the ambient light. As warm and peaceful as the rest of him. Moment of truth.

"So I wanted..." She starts, abruptly, trying to outrun her nerve. "Uh. To talk about...something."

Jackson pauses mid-bite. He carefully sets his fork down. The soft _clink_ on the porcelain is deafening.

"...Talk about what?"

"Um."

His eyes widen. Now he's worried.

"Is it...me?" He asks, a little too quickly, with the guilt she knows he's fine tuned as well as his former career. "I know I've been on-edge a lot lately, snippy and angry, it's not you-"

"No, no. It's not that. You already apologized for that." She assures. His visible doubt says it all, an awful look she's been working so hard to keep at bay, and it comes out in a rush. "Ijustwantedtoknowifyouwantedtohavekids."

Jackson _blinks_...then slowly leans back. ...Oh, no. Maggie shakes her hands, hurriedly.

"Sorry, um. I meant _I'm_ thinking about it, but...I wanted to know if...you would. Just...thought about it. I know you've got so much on your mind and on your plate. As well as Harriet, obviously." She blows out a messy sigh. "...Yeah."

He's still. Contemplating.

"You...want to try for a baby?" He asks, softly. Simple as that.

What is wrong with her? She could've just said it as plain as that. His eyes glint with all she tried to avoid. He keeps himself composed, because he's Jackson and when _doesn't_ he, but she can practically spell out each emotion as it passes through. Surprise, first, thoroughly sinking in and settling into automatic numbness. The fighting of that numbness, second, right back to an old, familiar pain. The rest of her confidence blows away like leaves in wind. She really should've kept her big, fat, ridiculous mouth shut.

"You know what...it's too soon-" She starts, waving her hand-

" _Why?_ "

Maggie freezes. He's staring straight at her now. Like she's all he can see.

"I... _love_ kids." She smiles, helplessly, and reaches for him. He meets her halfway, and he's shaking, and nothing less than her most honest will do. "I never thought I'd be good at being a...parental figure or anything like that, but I am. I really, really am. I love being an aunt to Zola and Bailey and Ellis. Working with Jade was one of the most inspiring parts of my entire career. Harriet, I...oh, I _adore_ her, Jackson. I adore her with every little ounce in me."

Love is the key. That quiet fear on his face melts at that, the corners of his mouth curling like a dogeared page of a book that just can't quite lay straight.

"Jackson, you're an _incredible_ father. Every time I see you with your daughter it just reaffirms what I love most about you. Your selflessness. Your protectiveness. Your gentleness. Just seeing you chatting with those kids on their way to the birthday party today, you...you don't give yourself a lot of credit, but you are one of the most tender men I've ever met. Even at your lowest points." She grips his hand, gives it a shake. " _Even then_."

Jackson could be a park statue, for all he moves. He grips her hand back. Clutching her every word.

"We have so _much_ love to give. We have a good life. Good people. What a gift that would be to give to another child." The words escape her, then, and it's then she realizes her heart's pounding like a drum. "It's...scary, though. I won't lie. It's _very_ scary."

"Yeah." Is all he says, sounding just about as breathless.

"It's not something we have to jump into, I..." She sighs out the rest of the tension. "I just wanted to bring it up. Give us time to think about it."

Then it's finished, and there's not much else to say. They finish their food quietly. Jackson needs a little space afterwards; she can tell by the brisk way he gathers up the plates and how he chews at that pain in his jaw while filling up the sink. It's not hard not to feel guilty, even knowing the slog he's working through never had anything to do with her. Maggie curls on the couch and starts a show as he lingers in the kitchen. Cleaning the dishes, wiping down counters, sweeping.

She's in the middle of episode three and starting to doze when he flicks off the dining room light and settles in behind her. The lingering scent of cinnamon and molasses presses into her neck, his arm curling an anchor around her stomach.

***

_Good luck on your presentation!!! You've always been so good at giving speeches, I know you'll knock this out of the park. I can't wait to see the final thing. If you get nervous, just do that ear-to-ear smile and make them swoon. Hard to judge you if they've fainted, Maggie, 1:12 p.m._

Text sent. Obligations waiting just outside the door. Now she's ready. When she looks up Penny is holding out a tray of tarts.

"Raspberry and orange. I _promise_ they won't taste like playdough this time."

They taste...like sugary sand. That's an improvement (sort of) and her therapist does a mighty fine job reigning in her disappointment when she offers feedback.

"I think I need to stop mixing ingredients and watching television at the same time." She sighs, setting the plate down. "All right, so. What else is eating you aside from work stress? I've seen you enough times to know when you've got something weighing you down."

What _isn't?_ Her life sometimes feels the part of Sabi's sappy television dramas, one mean twist after the next. Maggie buries her face into her hands.

"I chickened out of calling my dad. I've been putting it off. For months, actually. That's another reason I wanted to come here in the first place. I use logic and caution to cover it up, but I'm...more scared of things than I'd like to admit."

"You told me about him. It takes time to get used to distance. It also takes time to close it. What you're doing is gradually inching back to where you used to be. Or, at least, close to it." Penny offers. Maggie shakes her head, wonderingly.

"How do you sum things up that easily? It feels so much more complicated than that, but...you're right."

"Exactly. It's hard to see the straightforward way out when you're caught up in all the bramble and potholes of life." She points cheerfully. "You're also a perfectionist, so there's that."

There's that indeed. It's one of her biggest vices, perfectionism. She thought it was a superpower, when all it did was nearly cost her the best. That train of thought chugs toward the next conclusion, one she's been stewing on for a long while now.

"That's not all of it, though." She adds. "I've...been thinking about taking the next step with Jackson."

Speaking it into existence really holds a deeper power. Her world expands with the weight of that possibility, rosy colors and grey days both. Penny doesn't quite speak yet, eyes bright with pleasant surprise, yet waiting for the addendum floating in the air.

"I'm also _terrified_ of it."

Maggie covers her face and laughs.

"Isn't that _crazy?_ Last session I was fussing about whether or not I could see our love blow up in my face again because of factors both in and out of our control. Now I'm thinking about blowing forward, full-steam ahead. I, um. I asked him about having a baby a few nights back and he just...looked at me like...I don't know. I feel like I'm flying by the seat of my pants again, _just_ as things were leveling out and feeling easy."

Penny doesn't speak until she lifts her head, waiting for her to make eye contact again before speaking. It wasn't easy being observed so plainly and sweetly, but it makes all the difference now.

"There's that perfectionism again. None of this sounds odd to me. You were scared of one of the hardest periods in your life coming back for round two. If anything, you're being pragmatic about the obstacles before moving forward. Those very real doubts that could crop up later and make a new mess of things." She knits her fingers together. "So...tell me about what it means to take the next step with him. Progress looks different for everyone."

"I mean...we already _are_ taking the next step. We signed a lease together and moved in about six months back, which was a pretty big deal at the time since I was so used to the sisterhouse and he was learning how to live his life again. We already co-parent Harriet, when he has solo weeks. So, if we're going purely traditional, kids and a house leaves...marriage, I guess." Her stomach knots up tightly at the thought of him in a three-piece suit. Standing at the altar, hands folded and chest puffed. "And I, uh, kind of...want to marry him."

Penny bites her lip, smiling down at her laptop as she drums up notes. Maggie rubs her forehead. Is it...normal to feel a little nauseous after saying that? It _has_ to be normal.

"...Or maybe I'm rushing things a little. I don't know. I've thought about it for a few months, maybe...longer?" She says, shakily, trying to asses the rush of warm and cool settling over her in a blanket. "I've...I've never been married. Engaged, but not _married_. It's symbolic, anyway. We already do all the things a married couple does. There's no reason to be afraid of a piece of paper."

"You told me he went through a messy divorce?"

" _Very_ messy divorce."

Penny nods to herself. Maggie waits with no small amount of impatience.

"This anxiety bomb is just your empathy working overtime. From what I've heard, you're just as afraid of hurting him as you are of hurting you. You were afraid the relationship could be, in your words, taken away by his mental illness. By circumstance. Likewise, he's been through enough pain to last him the rest of his life. Yet you still want to take these next steps, placing happiness _well_ ahead of your fear, and are double-checking to make sure all the right pieces are in place." Her eyes twinkle with pride. "I think you're braver than you give yourself credit for."

Maggie fans herself, because she kind of needs it, and her therapist closes her laptop so she can fan her, too.

"Do you believe in fate, Penny?"

"A little bit. Sometimes coincidences just line up too perfectly."

"Yeah. ...Did you know we used to go to the same country club several years back and didn't even know it?" Her jaw drops at that. "It was on completely different sides of the fence, he was a guest and I was a worker, but...it's funny. I don't believe in fate myself, but we'd do the concept justice." Maggie nods to herself. "Yeah...we really would."

When she walks outside the sunlight feels different.

It does that, when things shift in a permanent way. She remembers it vividly when Jackson had been grieving over Samuel's memory, revived fresh by ravioli and an abstract memory she had no idea about. She gets comfortable in the driver's seat and scrolls through his texts, chest swelling in a hot-then-hotter rush that's been bubbling ever since she dropped the m-word.

_you got it. might get to reprise being a doctor if they pass out in their seats from the headrush, so win-win. oh i also ordered a new espresso machine. might take a little longer than usual to get here because of the postal service. damn virus, Jackson, 1:17 p.m._

Maggie holds the phone to her chest, closing her eyes and settling back into the seat. The memories of him, old and immediate, fill the car so thickly she can taste it. Him bringing her marigolds on the day of the dead when she was grieving her mother alone, a touch shy on new ground and yet walking through the door without a second thought. His exhausted face nestled in the blankets of her bed at the sisterhouse, scars glaring even through shadow. His haunted face over a pile of laundry. All of it. All of him.

It builds and builds, threatening to tip her car over and spill her everywhere. His unfettered delight as he led her through the glossy interior of her newest gift, hungry for her joy. The lunch he sent her to ease the stress of her workload. The naked fear in his eyes next to a half-eaten breakfast dinner when she asked about having a child. She wants more of these moments. Big and small. Good and bad. Familiar and new. She wants them _all_ , for as long as she can savor them. Until they're silver-haired and picking their way through an old trail on a favorite walk, if they could be so lucky.

She's developed a firm grip on the mundane, because what interrupts these thoughts isn't work obligation, but a smell. A very lemon-y, perfume-y smell. Her eyes pop open. ...Ugh. The air freshener Sabi gave her is a too strong. She's not crazy about it, but it was better than admitting she's been putting off vacuuming. They've only known each other for a year or so, yet her cousin could smell procrastination on her a mile away. Almost as sharp as Alex's nose. She starts to open the door, to dig out some of the trash that's slipped through the cracks, then thinks better of it.

A job half done is a job she doesn't like to do. She'll clean it properly once she gets home. Jackson was a neat freak and definitely has something she can use to give the interior a deep cleaning, like a mini vacuum or one of those scrubbing hoses. Maybe he'd help her, if he had the energy. A faint screech somewhere up the road jolts her back into the present again. Yes. It's a date. He'd probably appreciate the distraction, with the therapy he's been getting from house chores. Maggie promptly leans back up and sticks the keys in the ignition, freshly cheered. Another screech, louder this time, makes her look up.

A bright blue wink is the last thing she sees before the world spins.

* * *

_What are you putting off?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy hell I'm tired of nitpicking this chapter so it's going up warts and all so help me goodness!!!
> 
> While not this chapter's main song inspiration, the title is inspired by the single 'Counting Blue Cars' by Dishwalla. It was _all_ over the radio back in the 90's and is one of my favorite existential adult alternative ballads. This also doubles as a twist on the Grey's Anatomy staple 'Chasing Cars' by Snow Patrol. _Then_ I got in my 10,000 Maniacs feels, particularly with their tender explorations of interpersonal relationships and the smaller details of life, and...yeah. Can you tell music is a huge inspiration for me?
> 
> Also, sorry about the cliffhanger. I'm not as nice as I look!


	5. now you see me

**Song Inspiration:** "Sketches Of Pain" by Audible Mainframe

*

_they say_

_or at least they say that they say_

_that reality is only what your mind chooses to believe_

_if that’s true_

_believe this_

_*_

_You can become addicted to pain. Technically, you can become addicted to anything._

_Isn't that so much easier? Nothing can hurt you, if it's helping you. It's a consideration many make when their threshold starts to stretch and snap beneath the weight of too much gone wrong. Could be circumstance in the grand scheme of things. Could be a sick and tired brain, cursed through chemistry. Some have their pain mutate, from a bodily warning response to a desperate need. It's tempting. Oh, so very tempting._

_Pain can motivate. It can inspire and destroy and teach. Sometimes choosing which one is which is up to you, especially when it doesn't feel like it at all._

* * *

_"All right. Who's next?"_

_"Um, I'll go. Charles Percy. Brookings, South Dakota. I want to be a trauma surgeon. Or...maybe vascular."_

_Everyone's shuffling and muttering, a little humor sprinkled into the false bravado. They're in the big leagues now, ready to swap their proud orange for a crisp blue once they attempt to look like they know what the hell they're doing. Jackson folds his arms and leans back on his heels. He's got nothing to worry about. Not like Kendrick who still gets queasy at the sight of a little bile. April might be able to get through the day, if she can keep from panicking over a speck of dust. It's hard to hold back his grin when Percy shrugs meekly._

_"Or...like, uh...I don't know, actually."_

_"All right, well, you have a lot of time to figure that one out." The woman gives a brisk nod to the group. "Who's next?"_

_Jackson raises a hand._

_"Right here. Jackson Avery, originally from Boston..."_

_Percy sputters and turns to him._

_"Hold on, hold on, wait. Like...Harper Avery-Avery?"_

_Of course. Numbskull would take a while to put two-and-two together. He rolls his eyes._

_"No. I'm Jackson Fox."_

_A silence falls over the room. Everyone slowly turns to face him. Jackson keeps his arms tightly crossed, breath quivering in his throat in the way it hasn't since he was a kid doing book presentations in front of English class. ...What did he just say? That's not right. He fists a hand in front of his mouth and clears his throat._

_"Jackson Kepner-Avery."_

_Then it's as if the breath is being squeezed out of him. A damned hole that pulls and pulls and pulls with no way out. April reaches for his hands, says something about his mother that makes the room go too bright, and he tugs away, further into the crowd of orange scrubs and white coats blurring into an ocean. Another place he no longer wants to be. Glints of beetle black death whisper between the coat cuffs, and he can't turn to it, can't turn to it now. The teacher's eyes bore into him, critiquing each tick off the clock, and he stresses as much as he can with the air he has left, a mantra to will away the damnation around the corner._

_"Jackson Pierce."_

_It's a conviction like a crack of light through the clouds. A peek of something else. A few of his peers look between themselves, faces swimming in and out of focus in tune with the steady beats of his heart. He's too much to be summarized in a title or a sentence._

_He's a doctor, formerly pursuing cardiothoracic surgery and stumbling into plastic surgery with his head held high. He's a father, formerly of a little boy who could've loved Italian food and pop music, currently of a bright-eyed little girl who loves fall leaves and Disney movies. He's a boyfriend of a powerful, beautiful, intelligent woman who makes the stars align every time her smile reaches her eyes. He's a devoted son who stood tall for the gauzy values of a medical institution, then rewrote them for a mother he loves and can no longer live with. He's a good friend and stout protector, to Ben and Bailey and Meredith and Richard and Amelia and Link and Alex._

_He's all this, nobility and legacy and still just a man, filled with ordinary things and little loves. He adores breakfast food, camping under a starry sky and watching late-night movies until he dozes off. He used to prefer his hair short, but now sometimes grows it out so his girlfriend can coo over the curls. He used to play baseball, still remembers the original thrill of the bat connecting with the perfect throw. He listens to Michael Jackson, sometimes struggles to meet his mornings and has a jaw that hurts when he's stressed. He's thrived and sank and slept in equal measure. He's all this and possibly more, and that's why he deserves a life that's his._

_Jackson slowly straightens back up. He reaches up to adjust the collar of his sweater, then rubs along the faint scars curving over his jaw._

_"I'm..."_

_It's that simple. It always has been._

_"Jackson."_

***

His mother hasn't contacted him in days. It's the furthest thing possible from a relief.

The Avery family had more mottos than it knew what to do with. He probably could sell a self-help book filled with them, matched with each day of the year, and still have room for a sequel. One of many was that they don't quit without a _damn_ good reason. She never did. Never has. It'd go against everything she stood for since she married into the family and ran their cause better than they ever did. Every new day his phone isn't filled with missed calls and snippy texts transforms his paranoia into a grinding, chewing thing. While showering, while eating, while (trying) to sleep.

His phone buzzes once he leaves the car, and he holds it with all the joy of handling a sewer rat. He has a demo to present in his VR class later today. Distractions need to be kept to a bare minimum.

_Can we talk?, Richard, 9:32 a.m._

_no., Jackson, 9:34 a.m._

_You didn't even let me say about what., Richard, 9:35 a.m._

_because i know what it's about. it's about mom. i made my decision, don't make this harder than it needs to be., Jackson, 9:55 a.m._

_I won't tell her. Give me a call and let's just set a few things straight. Clear the air., Richard, 10:15 a.m._

Jackson sighs and drags a hand over his recent trim. God. No wonder people put this part of the healing process off.

The Western Roth is as warm and homely as ever. The freshly placed Christmas decorations looping over the walls and twinkling by the doorways make him twinge with nostalgia as he signs in at the front desk, smelling sweetly of hot chocolate and peppermint. One of the home care nurses waves his way, visibly cheered when he returns it. He spends a few minutes with Bill and Mateo, still going strong under another year under the ward's roof. They tell him George got leave to live with his family again, rippling a welcome wave of pride under his skin.

He tops off his visit with a brief hello to Barnes in his office, promising to visit at a better time when he doesn't have a line of patients waiting to be seen. He's actually wanted to sign up for another session with him, even though his current therapist is more than qualified, but it's not something to talk about right now. Darla doesn't recognize him when he walks into her room, and his good cheer dips, feeling more morose than usual as he reintroduces himself detail by laboring detail. It's not that he isn't used to it by now. It's just...when he _wants_ to be forgotten about, he's thrust into the spotlight. When he wants to be seen, he's snuffed out.

It's a sagging weight he manages to shrug off when Darla gets in one of her mischievous little moods, insisting he sit close as she prepares a colorful story over their poker game. She shakes more than she did back when he was committed. He takes off his coat and sets it over her shoulders. He wants to hold her hand, but dementia was finicky enough without sprinkling amnesia into the mix, and he was all too familiar on how startling sudden touch could be. So he sits as close as he can and listens to her recount her grand escape from a Thai hotel back in the 70's. Distracted she may be, but she never fails to ask about him.

"I'm working on a medical virtual reality game." Jackson sets down a card, earning a low hiss in response. "Trying to help doctors do their job better."

"You always _did_ like those games, Davey. Tell me about it." She sets down a card of her own. It's facing the wrong way, but he pretends not to notice. " _Aha!_ "

They bet nonsense things just like last time (and nothing stolen, as far as he can tell). She remembers the rules impeccably, despite her limited motor function, and he finds himself lost in the frailty and power of the human mind. A quiet reminder nibbles at the back of his head as he shares his life. A tiny thread of a voice that always gets louder the more he relaxes. Of a lapse in memory and the blood on his hands. That one wretched day he could only _partially_ remember. Her regular nurse slips in to bring them hot tea, which he forces his mind to latch onto.

"I'm going to be presenting it. Letting everyone test it out while I work out the bugs and kinks." Jackson says, puffing away the steam cloud and taking a tentative sip. It's a gingerbread herbal tea, spicy and festive. "I'll show you later."

"I probably won't be able to beat it." She sniffs the cup, then sighs (likely at the lack of alcohol). "Couldn't even figure out that game in the game room, whatchamacallit...Dario?"

"Mario." He corrects, chuckling. She insists it's Dario, and he doesn't argue. "It's really...important to me. I want to still help people and save lives, but...well...through a glass, so to speak."

They go through three games (and himself three cups of tea). She remembers him in full not minutes before he leaves, asking him why she hasn't seen him jogging around the ward in the morning like a steam train. He kisses her on the forehead and lets her keep the coat.

***

_how did you know you were ready to bring another child into your life?, Jackson, 6:01 a.m._

_Guess you're never truly ready. There's always some way you can be better, but that's a good thing, right? You don't want to get complacent with a kid. One: how'd you know I'm up and two, what's going on?, Ben, 6:07 a.m._

_you're the only one that likes sunrises more than i do. i'm just thinking about things. maggie asked me something and i don't know what to do about it yet., Jackson, 6:09 a.m._

_She asked to have another child?, Ben, 6:10 a.m._

_yeah. i'm...i don't know. it's so strange. i'm scared, but i also can't stop thinking about it., Jackson, 6:17 a.m._

_i had another question, actually, Jackson, 6:20 a.m._

_you know what...never mind, Jackson, 6:20 a.m._

***

_Good luck on your presentation!!! You've always been so good at giving speeches, I know you'll knock this out of the park. I can't wait to see the final thing. If you get nervous, just do that ear-to-ear smile and make them swoon. Hard to judge you if they've fainted, Maggie, 1:12 p.m._

Jackson starts to smile...then smiles _harder_ at how he, subconsciously, just followed her advice. Damn if she didn't know him inside and out.

_you got it. might get to reprise being a doctor if they pass out in their seats from the headrush, so win-win. oh i also ordered a new espresso machine. might take a little longer than usual to get here because of the postal service. damn virus, Jackson, 1:17 p.m._

The excitement makes him shiver, well before he walks into class. His hands shake as he settles at his usual computer and sets up his station (sports drink to the right, phone to the left). After all these weeks his game is _finally_ taking shape. God, it feels almost like the first time he completed his first official surgery. Not as potentially life-threatening, no, but the future success...it's a delicious, heady rush on the tip of his tongue. Jackson hunches in his chair and goes over his notes, fighting back the urge to open up the programming panel and do some last-minute bug testing.

The demo is in its earliest stages, using simple royalty-free game models and environments he later tweaked using the school's 3D modeling program (which his sculpting classes in the ward have helped nicely). He's given it a little pizzazz with a simplistic color scheme and a narrative interface not unlike text messages in a phone. He'd considered crafting the game's art direction in the vein of an EKG, but that'd be _weeks_ more work, and he'd rather save that idea until his foundation is as solid as possible. Less is more.

Class is a little louder today. The glass is long gone, so he hears just about every little comment front-to-back. Everyone has a vision, or two or three, and are just as eager (and nervous) to show it off. Jackson fiddles with his drink lid. He doesn't have stage fright anymore, but he normally liked to go first during projects. Get it over with so he could lean back and take a break for the rest of the class. One classmate has two sons to pick up from daycare today, though, and another has a part-time shift, so he's bumped down the list. Lucky number seven.

"Felt like I blinked and presentation day is here."

Thompson has rolled up to his station. He's got a sandwich and chips from the cafeteria, wolfing it down as quickly as he can. Jackson leans back in his chair.

"Same. You know, it's weird, I'm _always_ splicing my day into hours, yet I feel like I have no grip on time." He peers over at his stack of paper notebooks and bookmarked programming books. "You ready to go?"

"I guess. Not like I have a choice." He sighs, offering his chip bag. Jackson takes one. "It's pretty basic because I've been too tired to do homework half the time, so consider this fair warning."

Oh, he understands, and he tells him as much as the teacher walks in and starts the morning lecture. There's an eager glint in her eyes as she calls each student up one-by-one, each demo given a window of five to ten minutes to leave room for a quick group critique. She encourages them to take notes so they don't forget important details. Jackson pulls up his notepad on the computer screen and gets into his typing position. Most in the class are interested in game design, though a few, like himself, are considering virtual reality for other avenues.

"I never asked...what are you studying virtual reality for?" Jackson whispers sidelong. Thompson opens his mouth to answer, but is promptly hushed by the teacher. Oops.

The light flicks off. Everyone settles in as the presentations start. One student shows off their jazzercise game concept, designed as a competitor to Nintendo's Wii Fit line-up (no points docked for ambition). Another student has painstakingly recreated peaceful settings for people with anxiety, such a virtual bath with colorful bath bombs or a rainy forest filled with fireflies. Jackson types as best he can with his eyes glued to the presentation screen. The creativity on display is _stunning_. For a brief second he mourns his newly introverted side. He'll have to ask to see some of his classmates' panels, if they're up to sharing.

"That one was pretty awesome." Thompson whispers, as softly as he can with his eyes glued to the teacher. Jackson chuckles.

"Yeah. I'd play the _hell_ out of that."

"Maybe they could create bath bombs or catch fireflies." He adds, thoughtfully. "Something...simple, you know, that can keep them busy so they're not too anxious."

Jackson strokes his chin. Huh. That's not a bad idea at all. The next slew of ideas are on the more typical side. A military FPS, a colorful puzzle game, another military FPS. Thompson rolls his eyes over to him in a look that needs no explanation. Still. He has to ask.

"What do you think of that last one?"

"Might put me to sleep faster than the bath bomb game."

Jackson barely manages to transform his laugh into a cough. Then it's his turn. He fixes up his collar and walks up, but not before holding out his phone to the teacher.

"Could you record this for me? I want to show my girlfriend later."

"That's real adorable, Jackson. Vertical or horizontal?"

"Horizontal. Appreciate it."

Everyone sits up to attention as he steps in front of the presentation screen. Jackson folds his hands and lifts his chin.

"My name's Jackson and my project is currently named 'shard'. Lowercase for...aesthetic purposes." He chuckles, lamely, and feels just the faintest flicker of encouragement when he gets a few chuckles in return. "It's an educational medical VR game designed to put you in the shoes of both the doctor _and_ the patient. I've been writing it on-and-off for a little over a year now, so it's pretty cool to finally see it start taking shape."

The starting screen opens up, displaying the perspective of the player as a nameless doctor with a hovering prompt to enter their name. Jackson's heart flutters as he leans over the keyboard and types in his own. The music playing in the background is from a free library, a low, calming synth beat he couldn't stop listening to while studying late at night. Artistic panache is an important part of the game's appeal, after all, though he might have to change it to something a touch more tense...

"I like the song." Someone says, to the right. Jackson grins.

"Good. Glad this is setting a good first impression. So, who wants to give it a try?"

Everyone raises their hands. Ooh, boy. He points over at Joan, a sweet middle-aged woman who's treated everyone to lunch a few times. He helps her fit on the headset and position her in front of the camera. These things were still a little clunky, despite all their relative advances. Hm. Maybe that's something _else_ he can put his money toward, once his game was more fine-tuned...

"All right, step right here." He instructs. "Perfect. Let's get started."

His heart goes from fluttering to pounding as the game begins: the name prompt vanishes and a door opens, several doctors gesturing the player over to a table where a patient waits to be seen. The class mutters curiously, a few chuckles popping when Joan waves her hands in delight, just to see the gloves move back and forth in her vision. Programming nerds or no, there was always a little novelty when it came to virtual reality.

"So, right now you're the head doctor on this operation. Don't worry, I left the medical terms pretty simple for now. This will eventually be aimed toward those majoring in various surgeries." He starts to gesture, then remembers she can't see him. "That's your patient. First things first. What seems to be wrong with him?"

"Um, he's...shaking? Jerking. Having a seizure, I think." His skin thrills at the worry in her voice. This is just the reaction he wants. "What do I do?"

"There are several things you can do, if you think you have the right diagnosis. To your right is anti-seizure medication. That bottle, there." His eyes trail over her digital hands, moving with the characteristic clumsiness of a basic demo. "To your left there are restraints. In front of you are defibrillators."

"Wait, wait, which one do I use?"

"Whichever one you think will save his life." He pats her shoulder. "Hurry up! Time is of the essence."

He can't help but feel a little thrilled at her panic. That was the point, after all. Simulating life or death situations in the comfort of a classroom, getting tomorrow's best medical professionals prepared properly. Granted, there were some things that could only be taught by _doing_ , but that went for anything, really. The class starts to get mightily invested, each shouting out their own suggestions. The teacher suggests she roll the patient onto his side, which he appreciates mightily. Glad to know someone took basic CPR.

The music suddenly drops to a long, flat note: her patient has passed away on the operating table. Joan's shoulders slump with defeat. The class lets loose a round of applause as the screen goes dark, then lights up again with the offer of a restart.

"I totally messed that up." She sighs, tugging off the headset.

"Not at all, you were a huge help. Honestly, I'm just glad the music didn't glitch out. All right. Now for the second part." He holds up the headset and grins. "This time I need someone to play the _patient_."

Another forest of hands shoot up in unison, trailed by one slow rise off to the right. It's Thompson over by their station, a shy lump between the glowing monitors. Jackson gestures for him to come up, taking a step back to make room for his chair.

"Sorry, the cap stays on." Thompson says, taking the headset from him and adjusting it carefully. "Okay, I think I'm ready."

The screen lights up again. This time the crisp visuals are hazy. Faded. The perspective isn't overseeing a table, but staring up at the ceiling to a sea of swimming faces. Thompson wriggles his headphones a little, careful not to catch them on his hair.

"Is the sound supposed to be muffled?" He asks, frowning. Jackson settles back on his heels, folding his arms.

"Yes. You're a patient who's currently having a panic attack."

The chatter in the classroom goes quiet. Thompson moves himself experimentally, dark eyes following the limited twitching movement on the screen carefully.

"I can't really go anywhere." He murmurs as he goes, raising an arm, then turning his head from side-to-side. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Whatever feels right."

The music pulses in tune with the player's movements, the melody interrupted with erratic scratches or distant muffling. Prompts enter the player's vision, but they're difficult to read, flashing crisply one second only to dissolve the next. Jackson's quietly impressed with the man's level of detail when he manages to accurately follow one prompt off the table, where one of the doctors is attempting to lead him through a door. Then, as he figured would happen, he's led astray by another prompt that sends him through a window, shattering the screen and prompting a restart.

Thompson tugs off the headset, careful not to disturb his cap, and gapes up at him. It's hard not to sound too eager when he asks:

"What'd you think?"

"That was amazing, dude. I felt like I was going crazy."

Jackson's smile fades. Thompson blinks, then stutters.

"Not like... _bad_ crazy. Like, good crazy."

"Crazy's a word I try to avoid, but..." He gingerly plucks the headset from his hands. "I get your point."

Thompson tugs his cap down over his face and makes his way back to his station. The teacher encourages another hearty round of applause (which is just a little _too_ corny at this point), though her following critique straightens him right up again.

"You need to work a little more on your visual communication. Notice how he was struggling to figure out what to do at the very beginning? You've got more than enough effort on your script, so focus more on lead-in prompts and cues to keep your player engaged, even though the point is to be a little confused."

"Got it."

"So, is this...based off experience?" She asks, suddenly. "You being the doctor?"

Jackson glances back at the screen.

"The doctor and the patient."

They stare at him with...awe. It makes his skin crawl. Oh, not again. Somehow he keeps stumbling onto this pedestal, even as it feels like it's on his neck and crushing the wind out of him. Jackson slinks back to his desk, the quiet victory mingled with a frustrated heat in his chest. The last few projects that come afterward light a different kind of fire inside him. Each one is a fascinating glimpse that tells him more than weeks of group projects and online note-sharing ever has. It's as if art is a filter that pulls through a completely different level they otherwise can't access.

When Thompson is called up, however, he stays firmly at his station.

"It's not done." He says, with a halfhearted shrug. "I think I'll hold off."

Jackson blinks. Their professor isn't thrilled with that, but technically a grade can stay passing as long as the bulk of the homework is done. Thompson clears his throat for his attention, though he doesn't quite look him in the eye.

"Hey, uh...I really am sorry about that. I kind of suck at wording things right."

Jackson sighs and sets down his phone.

"It's...not a big deal." He rubs his thumb along the phone case. "Sensitive topic."

"If I'm bothering you, man, just tell me off..." He starts. Jackson shakes his head.

"No, it's...look. I'm sorry I was kind of standoffish before. It's not your fault."

"Whatever, man. You don't know me." He shrugs. "I was kind of being annoying trying to be too friendly. I don't know anybody here, so..."

No, he wasn't too friendly. He was just... _friendly_ , and his brain is so damn broken everything scratches instead of soothes. He shifts his chair so he's facing him.

"Here. Let me try again. I'm Jackson." He holds out his hand. "I was a doctor. I'm studying virtual reality. I'm good at math, but I don't really like it."

Thompson stares at his hand like he just handed him a free cruise ticket, then takes it with a firm grip.

"I'm Thompson. Sometimes called Tom for short. I was an, um, part-time administrative assistant, after an unemployment stint, and now I'm doing freelance blogging on the side so I can focus on school. Even though I have no idea what my focus is."

Tom. His skin ripples with bumps, something cold telling him to shut down or leave. Jackson smiles, and continues.

"Virtual reality is an interesting choice to take when you're figuring things out. What narrowed it down for you out of all the other courses here?"

"Aw, I _love_ games, man. Kind of a win-win scenario, too. Fills out an elective, I get to enjoy myself for once. I'm actually, uh, wearing a Witcher t-shirt." He tugs down the front of his hoodie, just enough to see the white hair of the protagonist poke through. "What about you? How'd you go from holding scalpels to holding headsets?"

"It was kind of seamless, honestly." Jackson puts his chin in his hand and looks at the presentation screen, now blank. "Makes more sense than anything else has in a while."

"You ever think of adding more of a story to it? You're kind of just dropped in the middle of it all. Maybe a quick cutscene could give the situation a little more context. At least, for the patient end of things. I know doctors don't always get a full story when the ambulance pulls up..."

Huh. Jackson pulls his phone out again, typing notes as fast as he's able.

"You know, you should keep a sketchbook or a journal or something. You've got some seriously good ideas." He bobs his head to the presentation screen. "I was really curious to see what you got."

Thompson squirms and tugs his cap over his eyes.

"I don't know, man. I'm not really...great with class stuff." He reaches beneath the brim and rubs his hairline. "People always gave me a reason to not bother with it, parents included. Guess I got to get a degree in the stuff now."

Like looking in a mirror.

"Yeah." Jackson agrees, distantly. "I know that feeling. My mother's..."

It still feels like a crash, but he can hold all the pieces now.

"...abusive." He takes in a deep breath and sighs it back out. "She wanted me to be something I'm not, for a long time. I'm figuring out my way past that here."

Thompson stares at him, part awkward and part surprised. What a monumental day, indeed. It's a day that seems to lift him up from the feet onward, cresting him over everything that felt truly, honestly impossible. Jackson floats on the inspiration of the session when class is finished and he's back out under the sun, reviewing his notes with food and couch lounging on the mind. It's amazing. For so long he's kept everything bottled up, when releasing it was the exact thing he needed.

Sharing the glass, what it is and what it can be, makes sense out of the insensate. Until it comes back, on the heel of a call from hell, and nothing makes sense, again.

" _She's going to be okay. I think you should still see her, though. She's shaken something awful._ "

"I'm on my way."

_Why?_

He asks, when he steps into the white building that birthed him, as much of a womb as his mother's.

_Why does this keep happening?_

He asks again when he sees Parker, so pale he's not entirely convinced he isn't another ghost risen from the dead to haunt him. The way he stares at him, he might even be thinking the same thing. This man has seen so many colleagues on death's doorstep. Bailey and Webber are both working today, but the stillness that comes with their presence doesn't make it through him.

_Why won't it ever stop?_

He feels the scream welling up inside, far too shrill for a Rocky moment and far too loud to be anywhere near the hospital. The world moves with the ponderous slowness of dream logic, sensations delayed and his own body a puppet of intent. Maggie is a bundle of bruises in white sheets when he opens the door, her hair hastily bundled up to accommodate a bandage that covers her forehead. It's a vague awareness of his body blocking the doorway, Bailey and Webber of the same vocal sentiment. His eyes scan her up and down, again and again until he gets motion sickness, but she's not falling apart or freezing at his fingertips or gone.

She's whole. Somehow skirting death. April had been brought back from the dead, at her hands.

_He'd once confessed he'd never wanted to see her again._

_Not like this. Never like this._

_Jackson reaches through the hovering death in the air, where she's hooked up to monitors chanting all the things he didn't say._

Then he had to take Maggie out of the lake when the sky was on fire and his body was turned to ice.

_He can't find her. He can't find her. He can't find her._

_Jackson screams her name until his throat is about to tear, around the water splashing in his mouth, stinging his eyes. His legs are going numb, but all he can see is that little dark spot in the water, nestled between the two yellow lights on a distant building. The last he saw her head until it went under and didn't come back up._

_'Take me instead.' He begs, with all that's in him. 'Take me instead.'_

"Jackson?" He hears her whisper, and something in his soul cracks at the abandonment in her voice when he turns on one heel and walks right back out.

_he can't find her_

Down the hall.

_just take me instead_

To the right.

_oh, I wanna believe_

Quiet.

_I'll do whatever you want, I'll do anything_

"Mr. Avery?"

_You can't do that. You can't do that. You can't. Never again. Never._

"I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Webber just wanted to know-"

She jumps back when he hits his back against the wall. Holds his head and hits his shoulders against it, a _thump-thump_ to break through the muffling that won't stop _cloying_. Another nurse walks up to him, one he doesn't know-

-and they vanish into the grey, with all the rest, leaving him to think of how short ago it was-

-when she almost drowned beneath a scatter of fireworks and a falling star?

Now she's back here, as if fate was a dismal threading of worse to _much_ worse, and they can't escape. It's a supernatural force pulling them back to Grey-Sloan, he's convinced, a cosmic web of happenstance that won't let them go down a new path without a kicking and screaming fight. Is that what this was? _Another_ lesson because he didn't learn his previous one enough? It couldn't be anything that she's done, not in this or a thousand lifetimes. He needs to know, because he's not learning anything he doesn't already _know_.

There's nothing he wants more in the world than for the trauma to hurry up and wither so he can _be_ with her and he goddamn _can't_. She just got out of a life-threatening mess. She can't deal with another one at her bedside. So he grinds his back against the wall and grinds his teeth and waits, against every righteous instinct scraping throughout his body. He grounds himself with breathing exercises, imagining each intake a gust of wind and each exhale a better moment. He rubs his hand on his jacket cuff and categorizes the granule rolling over his palm. He reminds himself the world is real, even as it feels like choking on satin, and waits.

He waits.

It's thirty-seven minutes on the dot before he can figure out his left from his right. Jackson pulls out his phone, hand shaking so badly he drops it twice. Once he has a grip on his basic motor functions he punches in the date, time and symptoms, probably unintelligible, making his unsteady way down the hall and bumping into a passing nurse (he doesn't remember if it was the same one who tried to talk to him earlier, and he apologizes, anyway). Amelia and Link are standing outside the door now, side-by-side and shoulder-to-shoulder. He walks up close, hoping his words translate properly from his head to his lips.

"-I couldn't be in there. I'm sorry. I'm not avoiding her. I'm not."

Amelia places a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezes it, eyes shining with her own unshed fears.

"I know, Jackson. I know." She pulls him into a firm hug and, even though he can barely feel it, he needs it. "You remember when Meredith was assaulted, when you and Maggie and everyone was keeping her alive, I...shut down, too. I know."

"How is she?" He clutches her back, probably too tight, but she doesn't complain. "Is she still awake?"

"Yeah. She's currently caught between one dose of painkillers and another, so she's going to be feeling some of the pain." Amelia twists her mouth wryly. "We've been distracting her from it with tales of the baby and all her attempts to shove _everything_ into her mouth."

It takes him a second to realize Link is rubbing his back, leaning into their space with a rueful smile.

"She threw up on the floor yesterday and it was _exactly_ in the shape of the Virgin Mary. I can show you a photo." He offers. Jackson coughs out a laugh, pulling back and giving him a hug, too.

"Send it to me later. I could use the pick-me-up."

"You got it."

His face is on fire and he wants to throw up, which means he's as ready as he can be. Jackson takes the doorknob in one sweaty hand and steps into the room, focusing only on two things: his breathing patterns and the woman stretched out on the bed before him.

" _Jackson_."

Maggie holds out a hand for him. It's bandaged, too, and, somehow...

...that makes everything make sense.

" _Hey_."

It's like being suddenly released from a bear trap. Jackson runs over to a chair and drags it over, hunkering down at the bedside and leaning in as close as he can.

"Hey. Hey, I'm here." He whispers, taking her hand and kissing it, all over. "I'm right here."

God, she looks exhausted. His eyes can't help but dissect the damage before him. The anguished set to her shoulders, despite the stabilizing nature of the neck brace. The short, terse breathing patterns. All the bruises on top of bruises, blooming through her skin like fireworks-

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Oh, no, I've got...I've got painkillers to take the edge off. It's kind of good, actually." She says, a little slurred, and tries a hoarse little laugh. "Grood, you could say."

Jackson tries to laugh back, but, fuck, he can't. Is she even _here?_ How does he know _any_ of this is real? He grinds a quick palm on his pant knee, then returns to holding her hand and feeling around her pulse. She has to be. He couldn't do it, otherwise.

"I was just sitting there...I didn't..." Maggie's eyes flicker in an abrupt dizzy spell. "I'm sorry. I'm really...oof."

When he holds it he can feel a broken finger. Another one sprained. God. He cradles it as carefully an eggshell.

"What are you sorry about? You got hit by a _car_."

"No, no, I mean...I should've...I should've parked somewhere else..." She stresses, sluggish and sad. "I didn't mean to...scare you like that..."

Oh, no. Does she think he's angry at her? Jackson leans forward in a fit of eager desperation.

"I just needed a moment. My head hasn't been on straight for a while and seeing you like this just...I'm sorry. I am. I shouldn't have walked aw..." He catches himself, quickly. "...No, I...I had to. I needed a moment, but it wasn't you. It wasn't _you_."

Maggie's face just crumples, already hard on the trajectory of whatever guilt she's feeling, and it's a hot punch of wretched, boiling hurt he feels on her behalf. She _always_ put everyone first, even when it didn't make a damn lick of sense. It's what he loves about her, as much as anything else, but that didn't mean he was going to let this continue. Jackson channels his years of experience when lifting her hand, careful not to disturb a single tendon as he kisses her wrist.

"Jackson, I..." She flops her uninjured arm helplessly on the blankets. "I could've...I almost took the, um...the air freshener out, all the trash, if I did I probably wouldn't even _be_ here..."

Jackson steels his face into a placid lake, unwilling to let so much as a ripple of confusion lead her astray. Air freshener and trash? He's not following. It might just be a ramble from a battered skull, but she says it with such conviction he wonders if it's true. If any of those had something to do with what happened. Oh, what a disease guilt could be when left unchecked. He's flung back into a horrible memory of Ben all but begging him not to shoulder the weight of a barely-botched mass shooting.

"Stop." He repeats, firmly. "You're _safe_. That's it. That's all I need."

He can see her trying to swallow around her neck brace. A red tinge is spreading around her eyes, each breath coming out in an increasingly terse flutter, and he waits with a patience he no longer wants anything to do with.

"This timing...is really, really awful." She tries to smile, again, but her mouth is shaking like a leaf. "I have conjoined twins relying on me. Two...two new possible parents. This stiff neck...won't help during surgery..."

"You shouldn't be worrying about that right now." He reminds, gently. "You have to recover first."

Maggie doesn't look at him. She stares hard at the ceiling. He can feel the crest of that pain and fear filling the room, well before her eyes start leaking into her brace.

" _...I was so scared_." She whispers. "I-I thought I wouldn't get _out_."

"Oh, Maggie." He doesn't remember moving, but she's leaning in his arms in a crooked bent to accommodate all the parts of her out-of-order, and he's huddled over her like a bulwark against the universe. "Oh, Maggie. Maggie. I'm right here. I'm right here. I'm not fucking going anywhere."

" _The door was crushed in like...like aluminum_." She gulps each breath, on the cusp of a panic not quite making it through the painkillers. "I don't remember that much...just...bits and pieces. Just...the crumpling."

A cold sheet settles over his skin. Jackson pets her hair, slowly, and smiles for her. Always for her.

"...That's okay. Memory is funny that way. It's probably better you don't remember it all."

Something in his words makes her jerk in his arms, struggling to sit up and move against all the reasons she shouldn't. He carefully shifts and nudges her back against the pillows, reaching over to adjust them so her neck is angled just right.

"But, Jackson, Alzheimer's runs in the family. My _family_ , I...it's already so much, I don't know if this is going to make it worse..." Her eyes roam and roam the room in a tired, yet growing horror. "What if I don't remember how to do surgery? What if I forget something... _essential_ , at the worst time?"

Jackson leans into her line of sight, just enough to interrupt that fear train and turn her attention back to him.

"If you can, I'll be here. If you can't, I'll be here. One way or another, I'm _always_ going to be here, and you won't have to do any of this alone."

It's fleeting, but he catches the flicker of hope in her eyes. He knows she's going to ask, because she's Maggie, and thinking of others even when she's battered and broken is what she does.

"Can you...stay? The night?" She chews on her lip. It's bruised, too, but she likely can't feel it. "I know you have studying to do..."

"I'll get an extension."

Relief spreads across her face. She rubs a thumb over his knuckles, and a distant part of his mind whispers he might've never felt that again.

"Can you...tell me about your presentation today? I bet you did great."

For a second deja vu keeps him still. Then he's back into the moment, holding her hand to his cheek.

"They really liked it." He tugs out his phone and taps in the password, then brings it up to eye level. "I had my teacher record it for you."

Finally, her eyes glitter with something other than pain and fear, and it's the most beautiful thing.

"Oh, wow. Oh, it...looks so _good_ , Jackson." She smiles, tiny and shaky. "I like how the song changed...that's really creative."

And that's it, right there.

Richard and her assigned nurse come in to update him. She has a Grade 2 concussion. Despite some minor brain swelling and a little blood loss the physical signs are generally good, since she's able to recall some of what happened prior. Her memory got a little jumbled on the way to the hospital, however, and she's struggling to keep food down post-surgery. The most long-term damage will be the whiplash and possible nerve damage. Her neck and upper shoulders took a beating and are going to need at least two weeks to heal, with a few more weeks of physical therapy to ensure no lingering pain.

Bailey comes in to call Richard away the moment they're done, which is for the best. He doesn't have any speeches left in him today.

Her nurse comes in with another dose of painkillers, offering to bring him something to eat (which he accepts, cafeteria hospital food is the exact kind of comfort food he could use right now). Jackson watches Maggie's sleeping face and thinks about the next few weeks, mapping out each careful day to soothe the fraying from this literal and proverbial crash. He'll buy more epsom salt for the pain. Definitely a back cushion for both the living room and the bedroom, so she can read and watch comfortably. Now's a good time to open up that recipe book Sabi bought, too.

His hands start to shake again as he punches reminders into his phone. Amelia and Link ask if he'd like to go for a walk outside, just to get a little fresh air. He craves a good adrenaline session, but he refuses. He needs a few moments to himself. They crack the window open for him, just to clear out the stuffy room, and promise to bring back snacks. Jackson leans his elbows on his knees, folds his hands together...and prays.

He tells God many things. Some contradictory, some painful. Every last shred of him honest.

It doesn't make sense, all this horror after how hard he's tried, how hard they're both working at making the world better. He wants to make sense of it. _Needs_ to, but that's how it works, isn't it? Life is a meaningful clusterfuck. Nisha didn't live. He did. Mark didn't live. He did. Lexie didn't live. Here he is, trying to figure out what can't be understood. For a second he wants to abandon his classes and his programming notes and flee back to the hospital, when he at least had a fighting chance against the callous curve of the world, and the thought startles him into so much misery he has to hold his face to hold it in.

Is he wrong for wanting a little more time?

The winter air is thick and soft, moving through the window with a life all its own, and something about it seems to wash over him like waves over sand. ...He has his facts. He knows them. He'll trade his life for hers, in whatever way would be deemed most suitable in the unfathomable stretch of the cosmos. That fateful night nearly saw him drowning with her, and it would've been a good way to go. He still wants to die sometimes, even with all his joy, and unlearning that shame has been nearly as hard as admitting he's his own person free from glamour. Right now he's in the midst of his second chance at... _everything_. At love. At agency. At inspiration.

She has lives to save. People to inspire and breakthroughs to patent. He'd do anything to be part of her dream, even if he's someday delegated solely to them.

He does eventually go outside to stretch his legs, walking through the ambulance lot now soaked in shadow from tonight's low activity. The reminder that he stood here on the precipice of all that had gone wrong is a distant, distant breeze. Right now, all he thinks of is what's good. What's right. He thinks of Maggie, occasionally looking up at the yellow square of her window in the dark as he repeats block after block. Through the parking lot. Through the park. Back again. He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

He loves her so much it hurts.

* * *

_Pain is and isn't and is again. Whatever it can be, trust that you can choose what it makes you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never! Meant to get this out sooner, but I had a whole _'nother_ fic to finish up. I need seventeen more hands, seriously.
> 
> A tightrope I try to balance in my writing is fantastic circumstance and day-to-day mundanity. I wanted to explore with this last half how life really doesn't wait for us to be ready when it throws its curveballs. How some people can have a string of bad coincidences one after the other, while others can go many years relatively smoothly. How do we pick up pieces that keep falling back apart? What's the foundation that keeps us moving, makes us _want_ to keep moving, when it's easier to lay down?
> 
> Good stories ask good questions.
> 
> also, jackson is drinking a real seasonal tea that I got at the grocery store a little while back
> 
> celestial seasonings is the best, I also highly recommend their vermont maple ginger


	6. cradled so sore

**Song Inspiration:** "Ambivalence" by Hanz ft. emawk

*

_stuck at the intersection_

_praying for the back then_

_to save you from the right now_

_night time skating with your imperfections_

_past an avenue of broken dreamers_

*

_Time is a linear thing...or is it?_

_An event that happens to you, whether it's as big as a graduation party or as small as a stubbed toe, is over and done with. It settles back in the void of all the other things that have happened to you, clouded into instinct. At least, on paper. Turns out time isn't linear whatsoever. We dwell on the past, viewing events months or years old instead of the present right in front of us. We see those long gone in the people we know now. How they breathe, how they speak. We say things we've been saying since we were small. We manifest the future we want, even if it hasn't, technically, happened yet._

_Time is all a jumble we wish we had an easy answer for. A wish that, in of itself, is not a linear thing._

* * *

_"Why can't life be easier?"_

_The sky's rose gold today. Refracting the golden sun with a ripple like wine, glistening between them on their swinging hammock. Her mother wears a crown of marigolds in her hair today, leaning in to better pour her a cup of tea._

_"Because we don't appreciate the good without the bad." She follows the amber liquid with a pour of gold that blossoms bright in the cup. "We forget the bad loves us just as much. That she wants us to truly sing our songs and clear out our wounds."_

_Maggie swings her feet idly, swirling the gold until it starts to flake up and out and into the thick air. The city below them stretches out in complimentary flecks, people weaving their lives through gardens and streets that curl. But she already had pain. Pain as a little girl with crooked hair and crooked teeth and a crooked gait made worse by the bad humor of her classmates. Pain as an adult who only knew perfection and fled from the complex only when it took the shape of a human. The pain's even beside her now, giving her a hot drink on a dreamy day that still can't quench the all-encompassing wrong in her heart._

_"Can we go through too much?" Maggie asks softly. She watches a man far below, jogging through the sheltered forest of a quiet neighborhood. "Is there some sort of...cosmic balance of pain and joy, or can we have too much of one?"_

_Her mother knits their fingers together._

_"What do you think?"_

_Maggie lifts up her cup, watching the gold flakes glint like glass, like stars. It's a dream, perhaps another time, and her thoughts on the matter are as layered as the flowers in her dearest one's hair. Either way, she's good._

***

Waking up in Grey-Sloan is pleasant and awful.

The ceiling is a different shade of beige today. It probably means the bruises around her eyes are starting to loosen up. Not by much, she concludes when Parker's face swims a little too much for comfort.

"Few more days and you won't have to deal with hospital food anymore." He carefully sets her plate and drink side-by-side on the food tray. "Want help this time?"

Soup. Salad. Roll. She remembers...deja vu.

Her venture in the lake after the fireworks show is as vivid as if it were yesterday. Of the meteorite that had fallen straight out of a dream, hot on the trajectory of a nightmare, and how the news cycle had been circling the event for _days_ (which might as well be months when it came to mainstream media terms). Somehow...Jackson's voice had broken through it. The rushing water and the bursts of light. Somehow, he always found her. The entire event had been a blur, during and after, and it was the hospital room and the warmth of his hands that stood out as much as the star.

"I...I kind of do." Maggie eyes the bowl of soup and all its future fumbling. "Sorry."

Yes, she remembers all of that more than what happened to her a week and a half ago. More than she ever has since it _happened_ , actually..and she's _worried_.

The familiar sensation of waking up in a hospital bed nearly knocked her out the first time she woke up. Now the newer memories are...blurry. Shaky feelings and strange gaps. A crumpled door and the smell of lemon and oil, mostly. There was an old man who had called the ambulance through the window (per his account), which doesn't so much as blip in her brain. Then there was going to the hospital, the one she suddenly woke up in swaddled with pain. Even this bed had a few twists and turns surrounding it, because one blink she'd been staring up at familiar faces and bright light, the next she'd seen Amelia and Link chatting about baby spills.

"Dr. Pierce." Parker's voice is a firm cheer that can't quite reach her. "You don't need to apologize. It's time for you to get a little practice on being the patient."

The soup is warm, not hot, and it doesn't hurt to swallow as much this time, a tiny detail she tries to take solace in. Through the slow minutes she tries to sort and label the pictures in her mind. Another memory of Jackson's warm and shaking hand flickers halfway through her meal, a comforting sight with an aching slant to it. Something familiar, yet wholly awful that she can't quite put to a picture. She has more than a good guess, though. After all the people he's seen fading away in a hospital bed.

_I should've parked somewhere else._

"Let's try to get to the bottom this time." Parker cups his hand under the spoon. "Open up."

***

Alex offers to be her personal chauffeur to her next therapy appointment. It's her first in nearly two weeks. Time arrives in a flash and already feels ready to whisk off without her again.

"Arms up. Just a little higher." Parker chuckles when she strikes a pose like a crooked Jesus statue. "Sorry. The sleeves aren't big enough."

Maggie bites back frustration as she's nudged and sidled into her cardigan and leggings (courtesy of Teddy). At least it's not the alternative of that potato sack she was offered by a passing patient (still thoughtful). She's trying to feel good, so _looking_ good is on her list of priorities.

"Just the shoes, then you're good to go." The man lowers down and starts tying them on. Maggie tries to bite it down, but it'd be like trying to swallow a frog.

"I...really appreciate this, Parker."

"Of course. You need anything else, you know where to find me." He huffs. "Working double, probably."

Alex texts her, then, and she's gently ushered out of the room in all her stiff, bandaged glory. His offer to help warms her heart, in spite of it all, because he's really in no position to do so. Not with Pac-North on his place and being _Meredith's_ errand driver half the time. That little fact doesn't change his mind when she tries to get him to reconsider over the phone and it certainly doesn't change his mind when he appears in Grey-Sloan's front lobby. It must be a day off, with that long-sleeved t-shirt and casual boots.

"Hey, Alex." She says, once she's minced her way out of the elevator. "I'm sorry, I know this is out of your way-"

Alex sets down his magazine and gets to his feet.

"I can leave work for emergencies. _This was an emergency_."

In a blink he's crossed the gap and hugged her, as delicately as he can with her all banged up, arms shaking with the need to squeeze tighter.

"I also needed to see you. So please stop with the burden routine and let me appreciate still having my sister on the planet Earth." He leans back and studies her closely, dark eyes lingering on her bruises before moving down to her neck and collarbone. "...How are you feeling?"

"...Stiff?"

Maggie tries a smile that fits like a loose sock. His bluntness was the best salve she could ask for, really. Alex takes the hint and keeps an arm on her elbow as they walk out the front doors and into the parking lot. She can honestly move just fine, it's just the ache in her neck and this weird, slippery feeling like she's about to fall over at a moment's notice. Her skin burns a little when a few passerbys stare as they make their way down the steps. For all she was grateful for modern medical technology, neck braces were _really_ goofy looking.

"Not my finest fashion moment." Maggie mutters. Alex doesn't even look their way.

"I think you look great. The gray compliments your hair."

"Ha. Thanks."

Winter's a little late this year. The air still feels wet and rainy (it might've rained while she was out, come to think of it-) and there's a crispness that makes her ears tingle. Alex stops for a moment when she starts to pant, hit with a sudden wave of dizziness that slants the world at an angle ...God. It couldn't be normal to be _this_ winded, even with the lingering effects of a concussion. Maggie leans on his shoulder and scans the car lot for the slate gray of his car. White Prius, black SUV, blue-

"Maggie?"

_a wink of blue_

"Maggie. _Maggie._ "

Alex leans forward, still keeping her weight on him, and puts a hand on her shoulder, the other on her cheek and his face blocking out the-

"-car."

"W-What car?"

...What was she doing? They were walking...and now they've stopped. Her head throbs plaintively, not quite as sharp as the stiffness around her shoulders. Maggie starts to look past him, feels the headache build at the sight of his car...then crushes her eyes shut.

"S-Sorry. I...I think I'm still spooked by cars." She whispers, trying to wet down the dryness on her tongue. "Kind of, um...panicky, I guess."

Her heart clenches painfully when Alex rubs her shoulders.

"Of course." His voice is soft. A little sad. "I'll drive slow. Okay?"

It's a surreal sort of hell. That headache follows them out of the parking lot and down the street, on the verge of a worse cresting and never quite making it. Maggie feels like a plank of wood in the car seat, every bump and turn jerking her unevenly, and by the time they reach the therapy center she's coated in a cold sweat. Alex offers to stay with her during the appointment, too, and she feels unsteady for the fiftieth time when...she _wants_ him to.

"You don't look so good." He says, helping her out of the car carefully. Maggie gives his hand a tight squeeze.

"I feel fine, really. Not _great_ , no, but could be worse." She flinches when he shuts the driver door. "...Could be much worse."

"Could be much better, too." He corrects, mildly, and watches her in that studious, big brother way she got used to long ago. "You tell me when you're done, okay?"

Whatever stubborn fire she was holding onto flickers out once she's sitting stiffly by the front desk of her therapy office. There's no chipper conversation or nostalgic backtrail when she shuffles down the hall and sits in front of Penny in her office. It's all...

_"...That's okay. Memory is funny that way. It's probably better you don't remember it all."_

...fear.

Penny is wearing a white circle dress with gold polka dots, her curls piled on top of her head with her bangs poking out in a fluffy menagerie. It's a pretty and cheerful look, but she can't quite grip it, certainly not in her borrowed clothes and plastic brace. It's like her emotions today are made of sand, trickling through before she can form them into something distinct. Maggie politely refuses her plate of cookies and goes through the motions. Just as slippery the conversation moves from her physical injuries to the crash to whatever happened in the parking lot. She wants to sleep, but she has to at least get _something_ out.

"Do you remember the color of the car?" She types as fast as ever. Her nails glitter a complimentary gold that makes her feel another deja vu, though like everything else she can't quite pin it down in time. "The one that hit you?"

"Um...blue. The car was blue." Maggie tries to rub and squeeze the cold numbness from her fingertips. "It's...I don't know. This doesn't feel like _any_ sort of anxiety I've read about. I wasn't even driving when I got hit, so why is it driving that scares me? It makes me feel really cold, shaky, but...at least, when Alex drove me here I didn't faint or throw up or anything like that. It's...I _know_ what it is, just brains being kooky, but knowing somehow doesn't make me feel better."

"That's how it is, sadly." Penny agrees, solemnly. "There's a reason why people prefer denial over the truth."

She cuts the talk ten minutes early so she can go get some rest, even offering to do sessions over Zoom if she doesn't feel up to getting out of bed. Alex is waiting with some Mexican delivery in the car, even turning on some Mariah Carey to make her smile. Everyone is taking care of her.

She feels cradled so sore.

***

_harriet got into another fight at school. going to be late coming home so i can have a talk with her and april, Jackson, 1:12 p.m._

_Oh my god, really?? Over what now? Not the bully again?, Maggie, 1:15 p.m._

_nothing much, from what i heard. squabble over backpack space. different kid. getting to that headstrong age, i think, Jackson, 1:20 p.m._

_Well...better than her being walked over. Did you talk to her about trying to settle things with words, first?, Maggie, 1:43 p.m._

_of course. she already got a good example of that when you confronted her principal. she talked to me about it the other day and said she wants to be more like you, Jackson, 1:45 p.m._

_Aw. Well. Still don't want her getting kicked out of school for shouting down her superintendents., Maggie, 1:54 p.m._

_we'll give them hell if they try it. how are you feeling?, Jackson, 1:57 p.m._

_Okay. Better than I could be., Maggie, 3:15 p.m._

***

The next day Bailey tells her she's temporarily taking over the twins case. It's like her whole _world_ is crashing.

" _What?_ No...no, I can do this. I'm fine! I'm feeling better than ever." Maggie feels the urge to do something impulsive to prove her point, like jump in the air or strike a pose. She thinks better of it. "Concussions and whiplash don't last all that long, anyway, as long as I rest up."

"You're still wearing a neck brace." Bailey drawls, fingers knitted over her papers and folders. Maggie shrugs, then doggedly hides a wince when her neck twinges.

"It'll be off in a few days. Give or take."

"You're limping and recovering from the experience of seeing a car slam into you at sixty miles per _hour_." She holds up a swift hand when Maggie opens her mouth. "You're also facing some memory issues, which is nothing to say of the trauma from an experience like that. This is perfectly natural after your concussion, but we still need a little time to make sure you're fully recovered. Your judgement and ability to work will be compromised in the meantime, hence why I'll be taking over for the next few weeks on consultation, x-rays and bloodwork."

"But I'll be handling the surgery?" Maggie asks. Her superior lifts her chin.

" _If_ you're fully recovered."

She bites back a sigh. It's perfectly justified. She'd recommend the same thing to someone in her position: the patient comes first, forever and always. Somehow, though, her whole core buckles against it. This case was _agonizingly_ sensitive. Every new week brought something new to the table -- a new revelation, a new hurdle -- and she was uniquely qualified to the task. Maggie reaches up to itch under her neck brace, frustration flickering in her throat. Just one missed detail could result in those twins coming out worse, if they came out at all...

"Now, that _said_ , you can come with me to update Rose. You're still on the case, technically." Bailey reaches out a hand to help her up. "Trust me, I don't like this any more than you do."

Maggie sighs and holds onto her arm as they walk into the hall.

"I know."

Rose is laying in bed, now thoroughly bedridden until the big day and looking quietly murderous in a messy bun and tinted chapstick. Parker politely leaves the room when they arrive, giving them the floor. Liam isn't here for the consultation this time, making up lost hours at his part-time according to the doctor's notes (with an accompanying detail stating he made a promise over voicemail to attend the next one). Bailey gives their patient the rundown, reducing the car accident's aftermath into layman's terms with a loose schedule.

To her shock, Rose _protests_.

"Wait." The woman attempts to sit up straight, then winces and holds her stomach. "What do you mean, she's off the case? I need her to help me."

Bailey holds out her hands with a gentle smile.

"It's okay. I was overseeing this to begin with. She just needs a little time off to reco-"

"No, it's _not_ okay." Rose insists. Her drained skin takes on a nervous flush, eyes flicking between them. "She's my doctor. I want to speak with _her_."

Maggie gapes. Um...wow. It's...a _surprisingly_ heartwarming turn of events, she won't lie, though it couldn't have come at a worse time. She takes a careful step toward the bedside.

"Remember, Dr. Bailey's one of the best in the field. She's _very_ experienced in maternal care and knows enough about heart health to spot anything wrong in an instant."

"But you were assigned this case because it was a once in a _trillion_ exception. Because not just anybody can help me." Rose puts a hand on her stomach, starting to wheeze with the exertion. "They won't make it without you."

"They won't have to." She wants to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but it might just aggravate the prickly woman further. "I'll be back on for the surgery once I recover. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

" _If_ she recovers in time." Bailey corrects, one finger raised.

The room is quiet for a few moments. It's still good news, wrapped up in a little bad news, sure, and it still doesn't quite sink in. Rose stares through them, as if she's watching something else play out, and slowly shakes her head.

"No. No, that's just the thing." She points a trembling finger at Maggie. " _She's_ not a mother and _I'm_ not one, either. She gets it."

Maggie opens her mouth to spare her the effort. Bailey holds up a hand.

"You're right. I don't have the same experience. I have two boys. One biological, one adopted." She swallows slowly. "I also had a miscarriage. Not too long ago. So, I've been on both sides of this fence and thus have a lot to offer on the matter. Trust that I know what I'm doing, for _all_ the long years I've worked in this hospital, and won't let your twins go down without a fight. With any luck Dr. Pierce will recover in time to either complete the surgery or oversee it."

Rose is quiet. More arguments turn her mouth, brown gaze a storm of emotions. Maggie leaves with a heavy heart, trying to figure out the whirlwind still kicking up at her heels.

Jackson is her chauffeur back home. He waits patiently by the car door with his hands in his pockets, wearing the sleek copper sweater she thought he'd long since forgotten about and a smile that makes her temporarily still.

"Got coffee in the car." His lips are supernaturally warm against her hairline. "With straws. Consider this my practice until the espresso machine comes in."

"Parker tell you about my sob stories about soup?" She sighs. Jackson smiles crookedly.

"He respects doctor-patient confidentiality, so, no." He runs a fond thumb along her cheekbone. "I just know how neck braces work."

He and Alex must've been chatting, because he takes the longer route back, near-identical to last time and pointedly down routes that don't go faster than twenty-five miles per hour. He talks the whole time, too, because the second he stops is the second she sees blue to her right, and he knows it. The one-sided conversation goes from Harriet's Christmas wishlist to his current assignment in 3D Design. How he wants to cross it over with his virtual reality course. Maggie holds onto his hand for the whole trip.

***

Her mailbox is soon stuffed full of well-wishing letters.

Jackson has followed through with his corkboard project, tacking up all his letters big and small in a heartwarming arrangement by the kitchen sink. Somewhere he can easily see it on a daily basis. She's not...sure what to do with hers. Something about the sight of all those envelopes drums up a feeling of acute failure in her, even as she knows it's entirely unreasonable, and she's coming up on twenty-five unopened envelopes on the counter. This might be something else to bring up to Penny. Maggie sighs, takes a leaf out of Jackson's book and pulls out her phone to type in a note.

It's a little nervewracking, admitting in plain text her reliable mind isn't ticking properly, and she follows up that scary action with a quick text to her father. One scary thing after another to cancel them out.

_Sorry about hanging up when I called. Wasn't quite ready to talk yet. I meant to send you this photo a little while ago. This is from a date Jackson took me on up in the mountains. I'd never been on a cable car before, but it's one of my most magical memories now._

Then she goes to clean up the kitchen, because if she doesn't she'll probably pop.

It's hard to get back to her day-to-day when it's still sprinkled with harrowing details. Just the other day she was contacted by a local newspaper asking for an interview concerning the shooting, clearly hoping to get some inside digs on the mysterious Avery and his intervention. How it got out that she's in a relationship with the man is _anyone's_ guess, but gossip was mighty sneaky. She didn't want to jump to conclusions on his feelings on the matter -- she remembers when he took the time to respond to paparazzi about mental health after his commitment -- but she turned them down, irregardless. Jackson has too much on his plate to take this on. If she brings it up, it'll be later.

...Maybe.

' _Then again, maybe I should tell him._ ', a small voice whispers as she wipes down the kitchen knives far too many times. ' _He doesn't like being in the dark any more than I do. Even on uncomfortable topics._ '

Home cleaning therapy is cut short, too, because her back starts to hurt when she sweeps and a telltale throbbing starts up in her temple once she stops. These conflicting thoughts and aches and pains stress her out so much they're the first thing she brings up to Penny next session. Zoom this time, because the thought of getting into a car or a bus makes her palms go cold. She lays on Jackson's side of the bed, because his scent always slows her heartrate down.

"I'm just not _acting_ right. My emotions are all garbled up. I feel sad about a happy thing or scared about a safe thing. I also keep...getting this weird, buzzy tinnitus out of nowhere and my mood is just all over the place. It's like if my period never stopped leaking." Maggie sips her tea through their now endless supply of paper straws. "Even simple chores were an ordeal."

" _That's trauma for you. Your physical body is healing, but your mind is still taking its time to sort itself out. It's not sure if it wants you to run or if it wants you to hide. Familiar sights and sounds can take on entirely new meaning through that filter_." Penny gives her one of those gentle, sad little smiles. " _You're okay. What you're going through is okay. You're not broken_."

"I _feel_ broken. I don't know why. I'm a doctor who's all too familiar on the healing process. I've spent so many years of my life fixing things. I've _always_ been good at fixing things."

Maggie gulps down the hot knot in her throat, twisting the straw between her fingertips.

"...so why am I good at fixing everything else but _me?_ "

***

It's official. Her recovery might take a little longer than she thought.

Difficulty swallowing was her first clue, even after a hospital stay and the best medical care money could buy. The physical therapist she was assigned was optimistic about her healing, right up until she asked about hopping back into the hospital before the holidays hit, where he gave her a smile set somewhere between grimace and professional rebuke. At _most_ , he tells her, she can review medical notes and ask for updates from Bailey and Parker. The goal is to heal her whiplashed neck and concussion to fully healed with consistent rest, painkillers and daily heat therapy. She also needs to mentally and emotionally rest from the stress of the event.

It's _torture_.

Without a steady stream of work to soak up her brainwaves she feels like she's rollerskating on a very boring ice rink. At the very least Jackson no longer working means he has extra time to lounge around or go jogging with her, but even that's only a slight step up from usual. He still has school, therapy sessions and visits with Harriet. When he's not occupied with homework he's catching up on sleep, either passed out in front of a cooking show on the sofa or strewn out in their bed. She can't blame him. She's never felt more exhausted in her entire _life_ after what happened.

" _If you want a more well-rounded recovery..._ " The man told her during the exam. " _...get extra creative with your medication._ "

Her medication takes the form of...a sleepover.

She may have left the sisterhouse, but the sisterhouse has never left her. Jackson's been out for the weekend (though not without hesitation), and, honestly, she's glad for it. It's another nature retreat, his love of which she's stopped feeling queasy over months back. The great outdoors really seems to do him some good and, fall-to-winter transition permitting, he'll be returning sometime tonight. A tiny part of her deep down hadn't wanted him to go in the first place, because she's been feeling lonely in a way that makes her feel genuinely hollow. This sleepover is the exact thing she needs.

Maggie double-checks the clock, then curls on the sofa and scrolls through their text history. He's been sending her updates on the turn of the sunset and his morning walks (no photos of trees, which she appreciates). According to the selfie he sent her this morning he's doing some sort of...meditation-study-session by the river, bundled up in his coat and boots with a rosy flush to his cheeks. She's considering putting together some snacks when she hears a sharp _rap-rap_ on the door.

"Hey!"

"Hey, Maggie."

Amelia and Sabi are side-by-side in their casual wear, holding paper bags and larger purses no doubt filled with toiletries and spare underwear. For _once_ she got a stroke of good luck on the timing front: Alex, Link and Jo are having a sleepover of their own with the kids. She's endlessly grateful for the almost labyrinthine support system she stumbled into. They can clearly see the tangle of emotions on her face, because their expressions fall in perfect unison well before she pulls them both into a tight, stiff hug.

"Oh...we're going to have to dig into the heavy duty stuff, huh?" Amelia says, one hand patting her shoulder and the other still curled around her paper bag. "Double-duty. I got a rosé and a red."

"I got snacks." Sabi holds them up. "Heart healthy, too. Except the cheese."

"Thank you _both._ " Maggie weighs the cheese in her hands, attempting a smile that feels sunken. "I mean it, I really need this right now."

She shuts the door and puts their stuff away, trying to remember how to be a good host. Cooking a meal or brewing up some coffee would be a welcome distraction if she wasn't so darn tired. She watches her sisters get comfortable and thinks, distantly, of what Jackson must've been slogging through at the ward. Trauma really _was_ like a sack of sand on the brain. The polar opposite to a tsunami to the head. The two bustle in and around the kitchen, pretending not to notice her half-hearted reactions to everything.

"Here. Let me make something." Amelia puts her hair up in a ponytail, then rolls up her sleeves. "I want an excuse to use all your fancy silverware."

"But yours is fancy, too." Sabi adds. "I've never forgotten those amazing plates. There were entire _stories_ illustrated on those."

"Ah, the good ol' plot plates." Amelia snaps open the fridge and peers in. "Kind of tacky."

They both chat and work in a smooth team, talking _to_ her without looking directly _at_ her. It's their way of stating she's not going to host this evening (despite it being _her_ home), and she accepts it with as much grace as she can muster. Sabi talks about the new kitten she got. It was the runt of the litter, expected not to survive, and it ended up flourishing with a little extra love and attention. Maggie idly wonders how a cat could fit into their lives. Jackson was so picky about cleanliness (refreshing, admittedly, coming from a straight man). A hairless cat might be all right, as long as they got it little sweaters for the colder seasons.

"Kittens in sweaters." Sabi croons. "So _cute_."

"So goofy." Amelia snorts. "But, yes, a biological necessity."

Sabi brings up her father when discussing a childhood pet memory, a very swift aside probably for her benefit. It's no problem. She's given up on connecting with Chris. Part of the work that went into cultivating family also meant culling the ones that refused to meet halfway. He was a stubborn man through-and-through, for blaming her for Sabi's coma, _then_ being too proud to admit he was wrong and reconcile. Richard hasn't kept in touch, last she talked to him about it. She's not sure she'd want that tension in her life, anyway. Jackson had firmly been on her side in that regard.

As if reading her thoughts her cousin turns her way, holding up the curling salami wrapper.

"So. Heard your boyfriend got you a winery." She says, bouncing her eyebrows. " _Riiitzy._ "

"Um...yeah. I'm still wrapping my head around it. He says we have plenty of help on how to run it, but...whew." Maggie shrugs, stomach flip-flopping at the memory."I'm just good at drinking wine, I swear."

"That's not a bad place to start." Sabi agrees. "Got any samples?"

Maggie gestures to the cupboard, though she has to hold off on a glass herself. Not with painkillers or her immune system's need to work overtime. Just like that, she's back to a little moody. She turns to Amelia.

"How's motherhood going?"

"Wonderfully." She pulls out a wood board, tilts it in the light, then swaps it out for a bigger choice. "I'm not even being dry when I say that, I mean it. Even the frustrating moments are great because...they're _our_ frustrating moments. Though I really could do with a little less vomit."

An unsteady feeling roils in her at the thought. She holds back a tight sigh. Maybe she's feeling so weird all the time because of this _stupid_ thing. Maggie leans back and starts nudging off her neck brace. Amelia lets out a sharp _aha!_ when she pulls out the biggest charcuterie board, then blinks her way.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I can take it off sometimes, I just have to wear it during bed." Maggie sighs and gives her neck a very careful, very slow roll. "I'd rather not put it back on, but...I need to hurry up and recover. Lots of work to do and not a lot of time."

They both do that little half-tense, as if ready to jump in and help her, and that feeling of failure comes back full swing. Maggie sets it to the side with a small smile.

"Really. It's not as bad as it looks. Here, let's set up some food and watch something."

The door clicks open as she's clearing off the coffee table. Maggie's heart skips happily when Jackson sidles in, arms full of camping bags. His skin is glowing, stubble popping out a little from a neglected shave, and his coat glistens with what seems like a surprise downpour. The caution that once came with his love for camping has well and truly faded. He looks refreshed, not a Tethered wearing her boyfriend's face, and he greets them all with enthusiasm as he unloads his things.

"Hey, Jackson." Amelia studies his clothes. "Back from the mountains?"

"No, the river. Mountain base. Did some jogging, though, and drank, like, nine cups of coffee. I'm going to have to order three more bags from the roastery." He seems to realize what they're in the kitchen for, face brightening. "Have you heard of them? They're a local couple, sent Maggie some as a thank-you gift..."

"So many drinks." Sabi sighs happily, taking that as permission to start digging through the cupboards. "So much time."

Jackson's eyes soften at the sight of her. He plops his last bag by the couch, walks over and pulls her into his arms. Maggie _sighs_ and squeezes him, enjoying the scent of rain and soil lingering on his shoulders. It's hard not to cling. To...everyone. God, she hates feeling so fragile. He senses how off-kilter she is, because he's Jackson and most certainly has telekinesis at this point. He leans back to better cup her face with both hands and kiss her forehead.

"I got you some donuts on the way back." He reaches into his coat pocket and hands her a little paper bag that smells like apple and cinnamon.

"Oh." He was always thinking of her. "Thank you."

"Just give me another few days on that espresso machine. Another delay." He affects a long-suffering sigh. "I swear I didn't make it up."

Sabi cries out they're becoming their own food and beverage industry, which really is true at this point. Jackson gives her another quick kiss, then turns and jogs off to the bathroom. She's situated herself on the sofa and started on the donuts (still warm) when he jogs back out again, face freshly washed and in some clean clothes. If this wasn't a sign his energy levels have doubled since quitting the hospital and turning over a new leaf, nothing was. The man settles carefully beside her on the sofa and lets out a gusty sigh.

"You look good." Maggie nudges her leg against his. He reaches over and gives her knee a fond squeeze.

"Might do this next month. Oh, I had _so_ many artistic epiphanies. I swear it was something in the air, just...every new breath, a new concept."

Amelia and Sabi walk over with the food, setting it up on the coffee table and figuring out their sitting arrangements. It's a delightful arrangement of crackers, cheeses ,and grapes, with a few chocolates and what looks like a diced salami for flavor. Jackson must be subconsciously missing his full-time in plastics, because he paints with his hands like there's a giant surgery in the air.

"It's so...thrilling, how everyone adds their own perspective to the game, even if it's a comment as basic as...as, " _This part made me sick in a good way_." Like, that's a huge compliment. Sounds strange, but it's huge." He picks up the little cheese knife and smears brie across a toasted round. "I need to get visceral reactions out of it, because it's not straightforward medical VR. It _also_ tells a story. The story of future patients."

"Are we going to get to play your game?" Sabi asks, visibly curious. She's attempting to do some sort of precarious, tiny sandwich on her end, stacking cheese and meat in-between two crackers. "Maggie brought it up to me a little while back."

Jackson slants an appreciative little smile her way, the kind that made her toes curl during their courting stages (and maybe still do).

"You know, I _could_ buy a VR set for the living room." He says around a mouthful, licking the crumbs off his thumb. "Just need to rearrange the furniture a little. Give enough room for the swinging of arms and all that."

Amelia offers a suggestion on the arrangement of the sectional couch. Sabi chimes in with an offer to word-of-mouth the game into success. Maggie nibbles on a corner of gouda, each passing minute swelling something in her chest hotter and hotter. She finally figures out what it is when Jackson stands up and starts miming out one of the scenes to his game, to the uproarious approval of her sisters.

It's love.

Feels like the first time in years she's been truly at ease, and all it took was a little extra good company. Who knew? Maggie snort laughs when Jackson sways in place dramatically, doing his best pantomime of a videogame end screen. Sabi offers him a little charcuterie stack to 'revive' him, which he accepts with a laugh.

"Okay, you're, like...making s'mores out of this charcuterie." He angles his head from side-to-side as he tries to figure out the best bite. Sabi beams.

"It's the best way to eat them. Go hard or go home."

Jackson's passion has extended well beyond the ward and school. His game collection has grown like crazy since they moved in together. The only reason she doesn't play them more is because she likes to take her lunch breaks in her own game room at the hospital. Her heart twinges at that (she should've parked somewhere else). ...No. She's not going to think about that right now. Maggie gets to her feet carefully to start a kettle for tea, then makes her way back over to the entertainment center, tapping her fingers on the game spines one-by-one. She hums to get their attention.

"We up for a racing game or a fighting game?" She asks.

"Racing!" Sabi chirps.

"Fighting." Amelia counters.

"I'll win either way, so." Jackson shrugs.

Ooh. _There's_ a challenge she'd like to meet. Maggie snatches Mario Kart, sticks it in the Switch, then grabs the basket of controllers. Her game room lunches were going to pay off _handsomely_. They're picking characters in the selection screen when there's a soft knock on the door.

"Were...we expecting anyone else?" Maggie asks, craning her neck over Sabi's curly head. Amelia shrugs a shoulder. Jackson's mouth, however, has grown thin, a strange pall settling over the room.

"No. I'll...go get it." He says, getting to his feet with a grunt.

...Oh. She knows who this is. It was only ever a matter of time. Amelia and Sabi lean over from their bundle on the couch, wearing twin expressions of concern. Jackson gives them a short smile.

"I need to have this talk." He doesn't put on his shoes, or even a coat, and for some reason that gets under her skin even more than his tone. His eyes connect with hers, deeper meaning flickering beneath the calm. "Just give us some space, okay? I'll be back."

He opens the front door quickly, just wide enough for her to glimpse a familiar perm, then clicks it shut. Amelia tries and fails to quietly eat another cracker. Sabi reaches up to fiddle with one of her coils.

"Is he okay?" She asks, tentatively. "Sort of shut down like a light switch, there."

"It's...a long story." Maggie tries, a chill settling over her shoulders. "A really long one."

Not that she has much of a choice in sharing. She can catch Jackson and Catherine's voices in the hall, hushed-yet-sharp slaps against the wall that make what feels like every hair on her body stand on end. Maggie gets up and shuffles back to the kitchen, wincing at the cold bite of the floorboards on her feet. Tea. She just needs tea. She chooses her favorite mug and tugs out a bag of licorice root, trying to focus on the sound of the kettle creaking and not the increasingly heated voices a few yards away.

"Not the time. I _said-_ "

"When _will_ be-"

Maggie turns and stares at the door, chewing on her lip. Her sisters read her like a book.

"I think you should just let them talk it out..." Sabi starts, wincing.

"He _did_ say give them space." Amelia reminds.

They're right. It's his business. It's _been_ his business since long, long before they met. But...she's been so out of the loop. Could've been out of it permanently. Try as she may, she can't help but lean toward the chaos rattling a few yards away.

"Jackson, just five minutes-"

"I said you need to leave. How many times do I have to ask you-"

The voices fade a little, the only hint as to who's who Jackson's slow murmur and Catherine's dynamic octave.

"So...still not talking, then." Amelia sighs. She makes a face when Maggie blinks her way. "Oh, come on. You know Grey-Sloan is more gossipy than a chicken coop."

"Why haven't they been talking? Is this my business?" Sabi catches herself, one palm held out. "Because I can shut up if this isn't my business."

"I mean, you're family. Might be rude, though, since he's trying to keep it to himself." Amelia admits, then turns to her. "Maggie?"

Secrets. Truths. For some reason navigating this skill is harder than she remembers. It's not like she didn't have to field a thousand and one things in the hospital, bouncing from doctor-patient confidentiality to embarrassing incidents and secrets of her own. Something about this just can't settle right in her gut. There's too much pain here. Too _much_ left unsaid. She's scared something will blow while she's still around to stop it.

"-never listen to me-"

"-listening _now_ , right here, whatever you want to tell-"

"-that's too little, too _late-_ "

"Oh, boy." Sabi whispers when she walks up to the door, careful not to hit the creaks in the floorboard. Maggie crushes her eyes shut, leans forward...then presses her ear against the wall.

Their voices raise, one after the other in a vicious crescendo. She can see the scene playing out in her head perfectly: Jackson's arms crossed, leaning down a little as he often did to mitigate his height. Brow pinched and eyes wide, mouth a tight line holding back a thousand retorts in favor of the perfect one. Catherine with her chin raised, expression damn near identical, but far quicker to air out the grievance.

"She got into a _car crash!_ How is that still not enough for you to back off and-and leave us alone? God, this is just like what happened with April. Even when I divorced her, it was still being tugged back and forth and back between _both_ of you-"

"That's completely different, she was your wife, I'm your mother-"

"And I'm your _child!_ I'm the son you kept, but not the son you wanted!"

Dead silence follows. Maggie's breath comes out short. Tight.

"How...how _dare_ you! I did every damn thing I could to protect you after your breakdown, after you nearly lost your job and your reputation-"

"No, no, you didn't, you crashed through my life and tried to dictate me-" He cuts off abruptly, letting out this agonized sound between a growl and a groan- "God, you showed me the fucking video, I was literally caged away to take a break and you played the fucking video right in front of my fucking face-"

"Jackson, don't talk to me like that, like I didn't carve my entire life around giving you what I never had-"

They're getting louder. The whole third story can probably hear them now.

"And what I never _should've_ had, you left that part out-"

" _Jackson!_ I'm your mother. I'll always _be_ your mother, no matter how you feel about me-"

"No, _no_ , you're not silencing me with that anymore, I've kept my mouth shut for thirty-eight years! This is my life, my home. If you show up on my doorstep again I'm filing a _goddamn restraining order!_ "

The roof shifts above, a faint creak that snaps like a thunderclap in the silence.

It's not the same. He told her as much. Right now, though, all she can see are family dinners followed by coughing blood and too many things left unsaid forever. Her head is begging her to let him close the book on this chapter of his life, but her heart burns with a need to _make it stop_. A third voice enters the hallway, deep and confused. Their neighbor must've walked out to see what's going on. It goes quiet, not long after, then is replaced by-

" _You got shot..._ " Catherine's bawling. _Bawling._ It's a sound she's never heard from the woman before, and couldn't so much as dream of imagining. " _You almost died..._ "

There's a terrible pocket of silence. A holding, deliberating sound that suspends her heart in her throat.

"Mom..." Jackson whispers. She hears the creak of the floorboards pass by the wall, as tentative as a mouse. "... _please_ , don't..."

She can't take it anymore. Maggie's body move of its own accord, despite every vein in her body screaming _not_ to, to give these two their space to work things out, but somehow this feels more like a crash than the one she was pulled out of. She twists the doorknob and steps out into the hallway, where Jackson is holding his mother to his chest.

"...J-Jackson?"

When the man looks over his mother's hair her entire body hardens into sorrowful ice. He has one hand on the back of her rumpled head, his own face a crumpled, red mess. The last she saw it like that was...

_"Mom's always been larger than life...you know?"_

_He rolls and rubs and squeezes his hands. Falling apart, and holding his pieces._

_"Laughs harder. Yells louder than everyone. Life of the party. Even if it's my birthday party and she's taken over the dance floor."_

_He stares through the wall. Seeing her, for maybe the last time._

_"She'd always do that. Always insert herself into every single aspect of my life. Whether I wanted her to or not. Hell, whether I even knew about it or not. And now...now I can't, uh...can't imagine what a room would feel like without her in it. Taking up all that space."_

_Maggie rubs the heat from her eyes, letting herself hurt that impossible pain, as long as he wasn't alone in it all._

_"It's like nothing is safe."_

...that's right.

Deja vu, round three. It's just like that awful day, when his mother was on the operating table and he was facing down a life without her. He's staring down that future again, right now, the pain in the hallway so thick it almost chokes her, and all she wants to do is spare him.

"Please go inside." He grits out against the side of her head. "Please."

"Jackson-"

" _Maggie._ " His eyes crush shut. "Please, _please_ , just... _go inside_."

She does. She goes back inside, past the horrified expressions of her sisters, and heads into the kitchen to drink her tea, long since gone cold.

***

_How are you holding up? That was pretty crazy last night., Amelia, 4:32 p.m._

_He's...really upset with me. I don't know what to say. I shouldn't have interrupted, he even asked me not to., Maggie, 4:33 p.m._

_Remember when you tried to comfort me when I was having it out with my family?, Amelia, 4:47 p.m._

_Yeah., Maggie, 4:49 p.m._

_Sometimes the best way you can help someone is to just cheer them on from the sidelines. Sometimes there really isn't anything you can do but just be there., Amelia, 4:54 p.m._

_I just couldn't stop thinking about mom., Maggie, 5:43 p.m._

_i know., Amelia, 5:47 p.m._

***

Slow mornings passing over the ceiling in square patches of gold. These are her days now.

She never really got much of a chance to watch the changing of the light through the leaves, because she was always at Grey-Sloan a half-hour before her already early shift. Physical therapy has been good, she supposes, though she doesn't really feel like much has changed. Mental therapy has been fine, too, and that's all she can really say about it. Life has become something happening to her, rather than something she's doing, and if she focuses on that too much it'll become too hard.

Liam calls her early one of those slow mornings, as she stares through the haze of her morning coffee and not-reads a newspaper.

" _Is this Dr. Pierce?_ "

Maggie leans up. She instinctively starts to adjust her coat lapels, then stops when she remembers she hasn't worn it in weeks.

"Yes. Yes, speaking. Are you okay, Liam?"

" _N-No._ "

She can just catch the sound of a sniffle through the phone's fuzz. Judging by the sound of engines and people muttering he's at work.

" _Um, she's really scared. Rose. Never seen her this scared, to be honest. She's the kind of girl that can stare down a stray dog. Happened one time when we were on a walk. Didn't even flinch when it ran up snapping at her._ "

Maggie gets up and starts to pace the kitchen.

"I don't blame her. Pregnancy is scary at the best of times. She's dealing with twice as much, on top of a nasty percentage that wavers with every new thing we learn." She tries to think about anything Bailey or Parker's brought up in their weekly emails and comes up blank. "Does she need help?"

" _I don't know. I guess? I mean, I know you're all doing your best. I just feel...I feel really useless, you know?_ "

"Yeah." She nods, rubbing her neck. "I know what that's like."

" _What should I say to her? What can I do?_ "

That life was an unpredictable crash through pain and joy. That her twins might come out and defy all the odds. That they might not. She shares it all, because the only thing worse than being a scared new parent is an unprepared scared new parent. Liam is quiet on the other end, the sound of his work hustling and bustling in an off-key crackle.

"It's all so ambiguous." She whispers, when he still doesn't speak. "I wish this held more joy for you."

Liam seems comforted, albeit mildly, with her promise to ask Bailey for a few minutes of her time to help him along. Afterwards she sits for far too long on the porch with her third cup of tea. Jackson comes home later than usual.

He doesn't speak to her.

She knows he's been exercising by the tang of his clothes in the hamper. It's the only clue she gets as to what he's been up to. He pours himself into his work, surrounded constantly by looseleaf paper and the glow of his laptop every time she passes by his office. It's an unforgiving moment of hindsight looking at how he's had to navigate her own workaholic neuroses: when the best medication for an internal crises isn't a therapeutic session or a walk, but a deep-dive into her notes for five hours straight.

When she finally works up the nerve to walk into his study the following night his laptop is off. Maggie peers through the low, ambient light to where he's sitting at his clay table, facing down gray lumps and tools and sponges. He has a flat piece in his hand, hunching forward and whittling a detail she can't quite make out. Gray curls bounce onto a growing pile beneath his hands. For a good minute she fidgets and tries to control her breath into something gentle enough to pierce the cloud that's filled their apartment.

"...Hey, Jackson."

He shifts in his seat.

"...Hey."

It's _just_ even enough not to make her clam up. She considers stepping inside, then decides against it, staying in her little square just in front of the doorframe. Her eyes count the little smudges of clay on his old gray-blue t-shirt. The one he always wears during home art projects.

"How are you doing?" She puts a smile into her voice. "Working on a project?"

"I'm...coping." Jackson murmurs. He nods, too much, still not turning around. "Get some sleep, okay? I'll join you later."

Maggie stares at his back, heart curling just like a soggy piece of clay. There's no other way to put it. She _aches_ for him. These past few days have been emptier than she has words for. All she wants is to strewn herself across against his broad chest, breathing in his cluster of scents and rubbing a palm on that stubble he's always scratching at. She feels naked and cold, and it takes all her willpower not to air it out.

"...Okay." She twists her fingers, tugs on the tips of her nails. Her voice comes out ridiculously small, but she doesn't know how to make it bigger. "Um. If you want to talk...just ask me...okay?"

There's a gentle _plink_ as Jackson sets down his tool on the tray and reaches for another.

"Okay."

She eats a dinner of gnocchi by the fridge, too twitchy to sit and too lonely to even distract with a movie on the sofa. So much of the conversation around mental health are the big, obvious symptoms. Hallucinations and panic attacks and jaw clenching. Not much about the exhaustion. It's as if it's a vampire, constantly sucking out her energy with every new action she tries to take. A sudden wave of exhaustion hits at that, supernaturally efficient, and she scrubs off her dish before heading to the bathroom, then to bed.

_The stars are gone._

_No rose gold sky greets her today...or is it tonight? The hospital is empty, devoid of even patients to give the building purpose, and she finds herself lost no matter how many times she rounds the hallway. She wants to run, flee this horrible middleground between here and there, but the only place to go is the parking lot. Jackson is there as he always is, a shape she knows and loves with every breath, but this time made of clay. Life had carved him out, once upon a time, but now he was the carving._

_"I'm trying to sculpt into something better."_

_He doesn't shatter this time, but melts into the buildings and trees, shapeless as the rest of her life has become. She tries to follow him, but she's heavy. Too heavy. Maggie holds her stomach, swollen with life. Two children, also made of glass, cutting her up._

_"Jackson, don't go-"_

Maggie jerks awake. Jackson's speaking to someone.

The clock blinks an odd hour at her from the bedside table. She blinks blearily, catching up to the physical world unsteadily. He's still in his office. Keeping his voice down, unlike last time. The pitch to it is panicked. An awful chord that lifts her body up and out of the bed like a puppet on a string. Maggie picks up her cardigan and tosses it over her shoulders before padding out, more for the comfort than the cold.

"-I'm trying to sculpt and get my mind off it but it's just too much. My chest feels like someone's sitting on it. My eye won't stop twitching, my jaw fucking hurts. Why does it do that? I know... _why_ , just...why."

Maggie steps carefully up to the doorway, even as her mind screams at her to turn and go back to bed. He got so angry with her for eavesdropping last time, but every new word that comes out of his mouth is worse than the last, and it's making her skin crawl. She stands just down the hallway, the door open at a crack. Her throat clicks with a swallow, so loud she's sure he can hear it, but he continues to speak unbrokenly, even though everything about him sounds broken.

"Sh-she...she got hurt, I got hurt, it's just one thing after another. I'm so scared that...I'm not strong. I've been thinking about it and I'm _not_. I'm really not, I feel like I'm going to die, right now. I'd rather get _shot_ than see her on that bed or have that fight with my mother. ...Yeah, yeah, that was today. I'd rather get fucking shot. Her fucking face, I wrecked her, I...fucked up. I wasn't supposed to hug her after all that, I was trying to set some goddamn boundaries, I thought I could do it, but seeing her like that? I don't know. I don't know what the hell to do anymore."

Maggie peers through. The man is hunched in his chair, back to the door and still in his casual clothes, one hand stamped to his forehead. He sucks in a sharp, whining breath, that verge-of-tears sound she's heard from her own mouth these past two weeks, and his voice grows muffled. Holding his mouth, maybe his jaw. She can't hear what the therapist is saying, but Jackson is listening intently. Vocalizing ittle _mm-hmm_ s and _uh-huh_ s, hungry for his change ahead of time.

"...Y-Yes. Yes, I am. I'm not going to, but I am." She tries to bridge the gap on what she's hearing, and the conclusions she draws hurt more than the crash. "Oh, I couldn't...I was...I'm sorry. I don't _want_ to be this way. I'm sorry."

He's having another crisis, literally next door, and she's worse than useless. Oh, what does she _do?_ Then her ankle pops, her body determined to betray her in _every_ way possible, and Jackson whips his head up.

"M-Maggie?" His voice quivers, tense with what could be embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake-"

"No, no, it's fine. I haven't been sleeping great, anyway." She rubs her hands together, trying (and failing) not to look at the notes scattered on the bed desk and floor. She waits in uneasy limbo as Jackson hastily wraps up the call, rubbing the back of his head all the while. "Was that your therapist?" 

Jackson rolls his mouth, staring at the floor in an awful, familiar way. He moves only to scratch at his jaw.

"...Former. Barnes, from the ward. He gave me his number in case it gets...bad."

Barnes from Western Roth. She got to meet the man, once, during the on-site meet-and-greet earlier in the year. He was a _stellar_ psychologist, from what he's told her. It was a real kindness for him to stay in touch, even though they weren't having sessions anymore. Jackson gets up and plugs his phone into the charger on the desk, then folds his arms and stares at the floor again. They stand in a thick, chilling silence. Her eyes, against her will, drift to his desk. There are thin slices of clay sticking out of a half-formed bundle. Like shards of-

"I was worried about you." She whispers. Jackson rubs his chin.

"Yeah."

It's a flat answer. She needs to assure him of something. Anything. That she's not trying to sabotage him or bring him down.

"Your mother tried to talk to me again." She adds. "At the, um, hospital. Before the crash. I didn't tell her anything...just that you were doing better."

Jackson shrugs one shoulder, a moody, sagged little motion drained of any energy.

"Of course she did. That's what she does."

Her eyes grow hot. She really can't do anything right lately, can she? Maggie's shoulders sag with good and proper defeat.

"This is all my fault. If I'd just parked somewhere else you wouldn't have had to deal with this on top of pulling away from your mother-"

The awful air shifts a little. Jackson narrows his eyes.

"What? That's not your fault..." He starts. Maggie swings out an arm.

"I didn't stop swimming back during the meteorite, either, now you're calling your therapist in the middle of the night-"

"No! No, if anything, it's kind of my fault." He scoffs, humorlessly. "I shouldn't have gone to the damn clinic because I was so afraid of letting go of the hospital, it's my fault I got me and Ben shot up-"

Maggie balks.

"How could you have known someone would walk into the clinic with a gun and start _firing?_ "

"Because I lived through that, I have an idea-"

"No, no, no, that was a tragedy you couldn't have..." It hits her. She clutches her hair. "Oh, god. Listen to us."

"...yeah." He drags nails down his beard to cup his mouth. "Yeah, yeah. This is...ridiculous."

They're a mess. A certified, grade-A mess. Maggie takes a step forward, wanting to soothe all the fraying he's taken tonight. Jackson steps away from her open embrace, averting his eyes just over her shoulder.

"...No."

Maggie pauses. She takes a step back and folds her hands together, trying to sort out the sudden imbalance that comes with the lack of him.

"...No?"

Jackson's gaze slices through her like a scalpel.

"Why couldn't you just...I asked you to _leave_." Maggie flinches at the shivering pain in his voice. "I'm not mad about the car, that was an _accident_ , but the fact you didn't even listen to me when I asked for some space? A little respect to do what I needed to do? Do you have any idea how _fucking hard_ this is? I needed your support on this. I thought...I thought you got it."

Time slips through her fingers. One second he's staring her down, the next he's gritting his teeth, tears are streaming down his cheeks like rivers, and it's the most awful part of a terrible night.

"I-I can't _do_ this alone, M-Maggie. I can't-"

He holds his face with both hands and starts to weep. Each sob is a helpless punch, ground out like he's spilling out more than he can carry. She can hardly breathe.

"Jackson...I'm so sorry-"

It's all too fast. She stumbles back when he storms out of the room and down the hall. Jackson snatches his exercise hoodie and flings it on, then leans down and starts shoving on his sneakers. She looks between the door and window, neck complaining from the movement.

"Wait, are you going out now? Jackson, it's too cold-"

" _Leave me alone_."

Maggie watches him in horrified silence as he double-checks his shoelaces, then stands up and stalks to the door, pausing in the open doorway.

"...Can you do that? Can you do the _one_ thing I'm asking?" He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, breath shaking white into the room. "Or do I have to beg _you_ , too?"

He doesn't come back for several hours. By the time she's starting to fall asleep the front door clicks open and shut, as whisper soft as a shadow.

She listens to his trajectory with a hole in her heart. Several times he gets up and goes to the bathroom, the clunk of the toilet lid and the soft _whirr_ of the fan her clue into one of his coping mechanisms. It's the same one he used when he'd broken down during Meredith's reunion dinner. He said he did it back at the ward, too. That there was something about the cool air and quiet that helped center him. She holds a fragile hope that he'll want to talk to her after, but it never comes. He doesn't come back to bed.

She always called him a gravity. Maggie rubs at her eyes, grinding her face into her pillow in a pathetic attempt to drown out the bad future memory.

She used to be his, and instead let him down...

... _on one of the most important things._

_"Ms. Pierce? The chardonnay, please."_

_Maggie sighs and jogs out back to double-check if the delivery truck has arrived, yet. It's going to be a noisy one today. Sometimes she really wished she could wear earbuds on the clock._

_The truck has indeed arrived (finally) and seem just as eager to leave as she is. She grabs the crates and makes a beeline for the kitchen, mentally counting the guest number and cross-referencing it with their current stash of wine glasses. They're used to her by now, but it doesn't quite stop the commentary. The 'double-checking' if she was qualified to even be working as a cleaning lady there. The backhanded compliments that she'd be prettier with straight hair, even from those she just knows they have the same texture outside the salon._

_By the time she gets a break her legs feel ready to snap off from all the back and forth. Maggie finds a spot to sit down in the corner, with one of the few chairs not being used. Fortunately, someone else is the center of attention today, and she might just be able to dodge her supervisor's badgering to 'rest on her feet'. A young man from a rich family is back from vacation, it seems. Yet another one. She twists the top off her sports drink and guzzles it in three passes, letting the hubbub wash over her in a crappy shower._

_He's praised for his blue eyes. He's praised for his trust fund. He's celebrated for doing none of the work, with no plans to even start. She wonders if he even wipes his ass by himself. She has to swallow back a snort when he walks by, as minted as a coin, murmuring a story to his collection of socialites and supporters._

_"I fell in love, though."_

_Maggie twists the top on the bottle, heart skittering when his gaze settles on her. She had no idea who he would be._

_"I mean, if you're just talking about things that happened."_

_No idea at all._

_"...I love you, Maggie."_

* * *

_Step back to step forward. All you have is time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hoo boy_. Longer than I expected and better late than never. I wanted to upload this a week and a half ago, but it hit me I've been...writing a _lot_. Had to take a break to rest the mind and the wrists. Then the holidays hit and I only wanted to play videogames and yadda yadda yadda. You know how it is.
> 
> For a chapter that constantly discusses time, I had to keep double-checking the timestamps on my story to keep it organized. Writing fun fact: you can be an experienced writer and _still_ forget the most basic details in your whirlwind of notes. Also, as per the last part, I want to specify that, _canonically_ , neither of them remember running into each other all those years back at the club. I thought it'd be interesting to take a look at how dormant memories can be better understood further down the line.
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy your super pain chapter. I _swear_ some comfort is coming after this hurt.


	7. falling up

**Song Inspiration:** "Losing" by Little Kid

*

_it really is amazing_

_i don’t know how we do it_

_never much for playing but_

_we’ve always had a way_

_with losing_

*

_Failure can be the best thing that ever happened to you._

_How can one even say that, when we spend so much of our day-to-day trying to avoid it? Every thought, every preparation, each and every last flicker of foresight that keeps us awake at three in the morning...it's all to keep us running hard down that path to success. When we define ourselves by those successes, every loss whittles us away into a cheap imitation of our true potential. Not every 'yes' is a good thing. Not every win is meant to be._

_It doesn't feel that way in the moment, until you look over the rim of those rose-tinted glasses._

* * *

Their new espresso machine finally comes in on a Saturday morning. He stares at it for a while, for no reason he can really say.

The model was a recommendation from Jason and Brett. It's a Breville, long-time industry standard for a reason, and supplemented with a hefty electric grinder and state-of-the-art steam wand. He'd shelled out a little extra for a bronze overlay, too, because he loves the way it lights up against the new dark cracked marble in the kitchen. It took a few minutes to figure out how to situate it against the wall plant in a way that's picturesque, and now it sits and gleams like it's always been there. Although he has a warranty, the pair has promised to provide tech support if anything malfunctions, which he appreciates.

He watches five videos on latte art as he makes breakfast. They go into the consistencies of different milk types, how the perfect creamy texture of microfoam is all _too_ brief and has to be poured quickly to form a curling white leaf in the brown. He goes through three cups practicing, trying his hand at a latte, then a wet cappuccino, then a dry one. It takes a little doing with a wooden coffee stick, but he manages to do a fairly decent replication of a photorealistic heart. Just like Maggie did, when she was alone at the bar after Meredith's hearing and was trying to figure out where she went wrong.

If someone called him superstitious as well as spiritual, they would be the furthest thing possible from wrong.

He drinks the whole thing. That depressing day was a while ago. Despite that joke they made at the coffee stand, it's not worth losing the primary message in the symbolism. Jackson scritches down a quick note on a Post-It, then makes one more classic latte with a little brown sugar before tip-toeing to their room. For a lingering minute he leans in the doorway and stares at Maggie's curled form. She must be on the cusp of waking if she's doing that ponderous, squirming shuffle. He sets the coffee, bagel and jam on the bed, nudging aside the bedside lamp a little to make room.

Maggie lets out a little sigh into the pillow. Jackson pauses in the middle of tucking the note beneath the mug. He slowly leans up and stares at her face, frozen in her moment. A few curls have come free of her silk headwrap, brow knotting and unknotting with the lingering contrails of a dream. He reaches out to tuck them back in, then slowly pulls back. The day's already leaving, and he has things to do. He shuts the door as quietly as possible, grabs his coat and steps out into the brisk morning glare.

_i need a little space for the next few days. i'm hurting, really badly, to be honest, but i get it. i do. just know that i love you, maggie. i love you with everything in me._

***

_You mind loaning me a bottle of wine or two today? I'll pay you back, Ben, 1:21 p.m._

_of course, man. don't worry about paying me back, come on. what's up?, Jackson, 1:22 p.m._

_what isn't. feel like I'm falling up. Techically things are good, but I still can't get my bearings and feel like I'm about to crash, anyway., Ben, 1:25 p.m._

_what's going on?, Jackson, 1:26 p.m._

_I'll talk about it later. I will. It's just...you get it. I know you do., Ben, 1:28 p.m._

_i'll get you three., Jackson, 1:30 p.m._

_You're the best., Ben, 1:33 p.m._

***

Somehow, despite it all, his winter finals are going swimmingly. He's starting to think he can actually do this life thing.

He's not drowning in work to avoid his problems. Not anymore. He _knows_ he's not, because he still feels the urge to run until he's blue in the face the very moment he stops tweaking code. The urge to drink is muted, too, though Ben's mention of wine has him considering dipping into his local storage over some clay. It's like his coping mechanisms have braided into an inexorable knot, threading through waking, through sleeping, through eating. He's ahead of it all, but barely, and it's only the knowledge of the social system he's built that keep him from panicking at himself.

Jackson hardly registers the low hubbub of the class, fingers a blur across the keyboard. He'll let the glass in today.

"You all know what you need to do." Their teacher looks like she just got through an all-nighter, the bags under her eyes an impressive shade of plum. "Just let me know if you need a last-second edit or a few choice words of encouragement."

One last tweak. Now to test it out. Jackson plays a scene, eyes flicking from the animation to the code, hot on the trail of any missing links in his strings. This is the healthiest coping method he's got, by far. Muffling the sound of it ( _the last time he saw her cry was when she tried to walk unhindered after her spine surgery-_ ) reaffirms the nature of it ( _he's growing numb again as she holds her face-_ ). If he neglects it, he's back to broken. If he gives it too much attention, he's melting. It's all about balance-

"Yo, Jackson. Got a minute?"

Jackson jerks to attention. Thompson's got a bright smile on today, alongside what looks like a new t-shirt. He must notice something, because that glowing expression quickly fades.

"...You good, man?"

Balance. Jackson hits pause, then turns his way with a small smile.

"I'm all right. What's up?"

Thompson's mouth crooks with doubt. It's plain as day why he's always ducking beneath the brim of his hat, because the guy was an open book. He reaches into his wheelchair's side pack and pulls out a sketchbook.

"So, uh, I've been jotting down ideas, like you told me." He already hesitates as he hands it out, holding the book like a wet frog about to jump. "Can't believe I'm putting my high school figure drawing classes to use."

Jackson blinks. He slowly takes the book, rubbing a thumb against the edges ( _coarse, nobbled, thick_ ). It's well-worn already. He flips to a page. Two. Three. The glass is relentless as it always is. It all sinks in slow as syrup. ...Drawings. He's been drawing. Page after page of intricate ink and rough hatches. Of... _everything_. People. Chairs. Cats and dogs and boards. Keyboards.

"Huh. These are...wow. You can draw?" Jackson says, words a sluggish trickle to his ears. He follows up as quickly as his brain will allow. "Like... _really_ well."

"I guess." Thompson's smile is tiny, but sincere. "Used to doodle a lot at my old job to stave off boredom. Had people constantly asking me if I was training to be a tattoo artist. Guess it stuck."

It's a good technique he has, if a little rough and unfocused. He can study his train of thought in the confident outlines that trickle to unsure fingers and toes, nothing a figure drawing class couldn't fix. The slagging technical skill is more than made up for in solid energy and an experimental touch. Even something as simple as a keyboard study has a surprising... _weight_ to it, lines breaking up and curling at random. Old with implied history. His creative spark kicks up like a plume of dust, ideas fluffing in the corners of his mind.

"Yeah. No kidding. I can see why. You thinking of overlapping this with your programming?" Jackson breathes, struggling against the urge to linger and skim simultaneously. "These would look amazing animated."

"Um. Maybe."

His sculpting classes in the ward have unfurled a new appreciation for art in his life. He looks to Thompson's face, opens his mouth to share his own collision with artistic expression...then pauses. It's like a scent he can't name, but has known all his life. The way the eager light dims in the man's eyes, right as his tone levels out. That instinctive flattening out, a folding and tucking away. A familiar memory sounds off far beyond the glass, flickering meaningfully around the image of a shy student backing out at the last second during a class presentation.

Jackson studies the way Thompson fiddles with the gnarled end of a loc, then looks back down at the book.

"...Why are you here, Thompson?" He flips to another page. Flowers, this time. "What do you hope to get out of the class?"

He can see the man's cautious gaze in the corner of his eye. Trying to figure out what he's getting out of the question, no doubt. That's another point to the theory.

"...I don't really know yet. Just sort of winging it."

"But you could've chosen any other class."

Thompson leans arms on his legs, rubbing at rough knuckles. Jackson turns another page, considering. He doesn't want to prod too hard. No, not too hard. Not _quite_ like Mark Sloan's arrogant showboating, back during his own more hotheaded days, but maybe a nudge could...

" _Wait_."

Jackson swiftly leans back at the next page.

"Is this... _me?_ "

The poor man looks like he wants to melt through the floor. He hastily thrusts out his hand for the book, which Jackson offers back only reluctantly.

"I-I'm just doing studies, man." He stuffs it back into his bag. "Not trying to be weird."

"No, no, it's awesome. I didn't realize how thick my beard's gotten, though." Jackson assures. He feels an honest-to-goodness laugh for the first time in what feels like forever, and airs it out. "I used to shave all the time." He feels along his jawline. "Now I can't imagine doing so anymore. Feels like a waste of my good energy."

"It's a good look." Thompson chuckles, rubbing his chin in solidarity. "I can't really grow all that much, so I'm kind of jealous."

Jackson opens his mouth to wax philosophical about the clean shaven look when his phone buzzes. He holds up a finger, pulls it out...and pauses.

"What the...sorry. I have to take this...text." He mutters, leaning into the light to better read the message again, just to make sure he's not imagining it. "It's videogame-related, funnily enough." He puts away his textbooks and hastily logs out, heart starting to patter. "Talk next class?"

"Yeah, man." Thompson blinks, craning his neck to watch him leave. "Tell me how it goes."

Wow. Already? Already. His thoughts hitch and chug around the message, uncharacteristically unsure in a way that would've felt bizarre back in Grey-Sloan. Jackson hastily checks his hair and beard in his phone mirror as he rounds hallway after hallway on his way to his teacher's office. He finds her sitting in her chair, with a gangly man he doesn't recognize. His life remains a little out-of-order, because he hears his own response more clearly than her invitation.

"...Wait, you want to _what?_ "

The woman lets out a sigh, though it's far from critical.

"You're a bit of a spacecase, Jackson." She drawls, waving him in. "I see potential in my students, I spread the word. Your demo has caught the attention of a few of my colleagues, who _then_ talked about it with a few of their colleagues...you get the point."

Jackson leans on his heels, lingering in the office doorway to let it sink in as fast as it's able. Damn. He honestly hadn't expected his concept to take off for another year or more...and that's _if_ he wrangled his broken brain into competence sooner rather than later. Eventually his legs propel him inside and position him into a chair across from her guest, currently watching him with hawk-like focus. The hornrimmed glasses and slick hair are a look he's grown familiar with in the tech side of college.

"It's _very_ nice to meet you, Mr. Avery." Hearing his last name sounds so _strange_ in this little college cubicle. "I'm Thom."

He should probably take out his laptop and punch in some notes, but it's hard to focus on anything more than what's in front of him. The timing of it all is supernatural. Thom is a former audio engineer who quit his job to turn to game production. Jackson's heard of his studio, just once during a discussion of the indie game scene. It was a while back during the ward, and he has to rack his brain to bridge the gap as Thom shakes his hand with the firm flippancy of someone who's here for business. His teacher remains in the office, though at a respectable distance to give them the floor.

"So now you're looking to get videogames off the ground?" Jackson tries, voice still too distant for comfort. Thom doesn't seem to notice, holding out two hands in a passionate gap.

"No, no, not just any. I'm looking for projects that _stand out_. I don't want to recreate the same generic MOBAs or FPSs everyone else is doing. This is the studio people turn to when they _want_ something that'll change their life."

Jackson puts on a half-smile. Now _this_ he does remember.

"Well, you won't have to worry about that." He crosses his legs, settling back in the chair. "This is currently my life's passion. Nothing less than the best."

It's the answer he wants to hear. Thom's eyes light up, already on another thought thread.

"Yes, yes, I was _really_ curious about the demo's story. What was your inspiration?"

An interview on the spot. Nothing he can't, and couldn't ever, handle. Jackson considers his words carefully, the scroll of elegant dissertation and simple deconstruction pulling through his vision not unlike lines of code.

"Life." He starts, slowly. "More specifically, _my_ life. I worked in the medical field for almost a decade. I was a surgical resident for a few years, then became an attending in plastics, or plastic surgery, under one of the best in the field. I would later become the department head at Grey-Sloan Memorial, as well as the head of board for the Avery Foundation." He shifts in his chair. "Throughout it all I would survive an explosion, a mass shooting, the loss of my son, _another_ shooting and a depressive episode so severe it had me hospitalized."

His teacher blinks at him from where she's staying low-key busy on her computer. Thom is in a similar boat. The man pauses halfway on a chuckle, clearly disbelieving, only for the smile to fade when Jackson keeps his gaze level.

"This game...shard...is how I reconcile with it all. Give the agony meaning and feed it back out into the world to help others heal, little by little." Jackson rubs at the scars on his knuckles. They're thin and silvery now, almost entirely faded into the brown of his skin. "I want to use it as a tool to improve the work of doctors, starting with the empathy well before they ever touch a scalpel."

The room is quiet. An overwhelmed stuffiness he's felt at a few awkward work parties in the past. A bird squawks outside.

"...Damn, if you'll pardon my language." Thom manages, after a pause. "That sounds like the plot to a thriller trilogy."

"It sure felt like one." Jackson admits, and it's the icebreaker the room needs. He feels the air settle back into calm.

"Yes, yes, that explains so _much_." Thom rubs his chin, staring past him. "Looking through the eyes of madness and the eyes of sanity. That's the kind of stuff we're looking for."

Jackson opens his mouth to answer...then pauses.

"Madness...is not a medical term." He says, as evenly as he can around the heat growing in his chest. "I think the words you're looking for are mentally ill, neuroatypical or traumatized."

"Sorry, sorry." He waves a dismissive hand. "I'm not a doctor."

Jackson rolls his jaw, slowly.

"...But you could be _working_ with one, so show a little more respect for the reality of it, please."

Thom's glee cools. His teacher looks up from her monitor again. He can hear the phantom criticisms of his mother at his back.

_You should've reigned it back. Nobody wants to work with a rabblerouser._

"...Of course, Mr. Avery." The man smiles a toothy, tense smile. "I'm not trying to step on your toes here."

"You're not trying to meet me halfway, either."

What the hell is his mouth doing? It's moving without his permission, venting all the things he needs to fold and carve into more acceptable shapes-

_Being an Avery means dazzling the second you step into the room. Before you've said a single word._

"We're trying to find the next great horror game." Thom assures, holding up a hand. "Psychological, medical, whatever looks best on the shelf-"

" _Horror?_ "

What... _was_ this? Jackson turns to his teacher, teeth grinding so hard the pain in his jaw feels like dust. She's clearly feeling some of the tension, eyes flicking between them.

"Thom didn't tell me what the studio was looking for, exactly, just that they were interested..." She says, carefully, in some attempt to mediate. Jackson shakes his head hard, the anger blistering into a fire out of his control.

"Well, _they_ could've saved both of us some time." He resists the urge to yank his bag off the ground, picking it up with a shaking hand and shooting a look at the businessman before him. "Mostly _mine._ "

Admirable, amicable Avery is long gone. Jackson shoulders his bag and stalks out of the room without looking back, the alarmed clatter of their voices little more than noise at his back.

The day is bright and crisp, though it still struggles to shine through the cloud that's settled around his head. One way or another, he was faced with exactly what people thought of him: a goddamn _tool_ , to be used and abused and tucked away when he outlived expectations. What the hell was the _point?_ This wasn't even his true calling. That was medicine, always medicine, and this college stint was just...healing from that. There was no reason to expect any sort of decency when he wasn't even in the medical field. One way or another, he uproots something sturdy and makes a mess of it.

...Right?

He gets inside his car and slams the door so hard the vibration rattles his fingers. God, the _one_ time he actually wishes he had access to the family jet was so he could fly to the damn moon and leave this wretched place behind him. Jackson slumps in the seat, gripping the wheel. His eyes burn, ridiculously, and he hits his elbow against the door, once, twice, for no other reason than to vent some of that infuriating steam. Jackson looks at the loose-leaf notes peeking out of his bag in the passenger seat. Feels a familiar, passionate ache deep in his sternum past all the anger.

With a shaking hand he tugs out his phone and starts to text Maggie...then stops. He deletes the message, then shoves it back into his pocket and hunches back. There's no hiding from the thoughts now. They've been let loose like a flurry of leaves, drying out all that's easy and good.

_You got shot. You almost died. I would've never seen you again._

***

"I wish things that were good for me didn't hurt so much. It's ridiculous, saying it out loud like that, when I had to...hear this as a doctor, all the time. Patients who didn't want the shot because they were afraid of needles or patients who struggled through burn recovery that hurt _because_ it was healing. God, I get it, and I just...wish it could feel like the success it's supposed to be."

There's the space he created and the space created by the unpredictability of life. He can't afford to blur the distance between the two, but it feels the same, nonetheless.

Maggie's struggling.

He's looked at the little stories of life differently ever since signing up for design courses. He finds his mind transcribing her actions in a new way. Supplementing what she does with new meaning, and double-meaning. He's slept on the couch for the past few days not to needle at her, but because he can _be_ the needle, a whole bag full of them when he sinks into his hurt. He hopes she knows this, but it's hard to tell, sometimes. Maggie gives him her space, stays civil and says simple things, and it's not enough.

"Did I do the right thing? Does it feel like this because I made a mistake and thought I was healing when I was just...breaking _more_ of my life and more of the people in it? I fucked up so badly in the past, I nearly lost it all, in one fell swoop. I thought I came out of it a scar, withered and raw and all the better for it, but I'm _still_ bleeding out..."

Over the days he finds her curled beneath a blanket not-watching a movie, a book unfurled and neglected in her lap. Sitting on the porch with one of her rechargeable heart keychains, turning it on and off and on again. Maggie always seems to fiddle with something, as if she's constantly trying to fix something. For the past few days she's been starting up little projects in the apartment to 'fix' things, whether or not they needed it. The more obvious chores didn't blip on his radar, not when he understood the need for low-key activities to redirect nervous energy. Vacuuming. Mopping. Spritzing the plants.

She's struggling. He's struggling. He loves her from his self-protective distance, as best he can.

"I don't want to go back to that. I can't _take_ it anymore. I meant every word I said, I did, and I'm not _trying_ to be that man, anymore. I just...I just want to heal."

He makes her dinner, even though he eats alone at his sculpting desk. He does her laundry alongside his own, then folds it alone to a playlist. He buys her new BB cream, because he used a little of hers when his ran out. Time and distance heals the hurt, soothing the bad memory and sanding off its coarse edges. It still aches. What she did was a whipping of the rug out from under his feet, a stability he took for granted until it suddenly wasn't there anymore. He's having to come to terms with the fact that night simultaneously scarred his trust _and_ solidified she's been his grounding force, all along.

"I still don't know if you're out there. I still don't know if I believe in you, or the idea of you, or something like you. I just know I want to believe in higher, in _better_ , because that's the first step toward crafting it with my own two hands."

He loves her, with everything in him.

"Amen."

***

Sometimes he just can't do it. The reality of it all was always the worst thing about it, well before the nightmares, eons before the iron puddles.

He tries to reason with his body during the teacher's review. He can sit for just twenty more minutes, then break for lunch like everyone else. Barnes taught him how to sit out the pain without ignoring or downplaying it, because scheduling was an omnipresent aspect of life, and yet... _he just can't do it_. The clutch of his breath turns his vision foggy and moving his fingers is like trying to swim through cold oil. When someone asks him something, he can't answer. When someone reaches out to him, to check on him or ask a question about the project, he can't meet them halfway.

Jackson gets up and leaves in the middle of the lecture to go sit on the bench outside the university lunch lobby and stare at the sky.

His body tells him he's sinking. His mind _screams_ that he is. He tries not to let instinct rule him, though it's hard to see it all, _see_ at all through the fog. His life is moving forward on the trajectory that he needs, yet it feels less like a train and more like an island, the crest of water giving him the illusion of movement while he stays firmly, awfully stuck. He'd just wanted Maggie to be by his side. To _wait_ for him as he pulled out the last few shards in his life. For all that life has battered him nothing has ever hurt more, except right when it _did_ , his mother's wet face haunting him as confidently as any ghost.

Maybe he was wrong in expecting anyone to get it. To care, sure, but to get it? Jackson hunches and knits his hands together in a desperate prayer, though his thoughts are as tangible as the wind. He only looks back up at the sound of a familiar squeak.

"...You good, man?"

How long has he been out here? Jackson peers at the campus clock ( _he doesn't remember when he left class-_ ), then back. Thompson has a two bags of food. He realizes, far away, one's for him.

"I know I keep asking that a lot, I'm not trying to, like...embarrass you or anything." He scooches over to better angle beside the bench, and him. "You just haven't looked well lately."

"I...don't really feel all that well." Jackson takes the bag. It smells salty and hot, a sandwich, probably. "Thanks, man."

He can't taste the food, but somewhere, distantly, he knows it's good. Cheesy.

"I told the teacher you were probably having a panic attack." Thompson says around a mouthful. Jackson takes another bite.

"Something like that."

A group of foreign exchange students walk by (Japanese, by the sound of it-), chattering and snapping photos. The man grows quiet.

"Um. About what you asked me before..."

Jackson sits up to attention. He's never been very shy himself, outside of a brief fear of public speaking as a kid, but he's all too familiar with how easy it is for some to clam back up.

"About games and why you love them." He repeats. Thompson nods. He takes another bite of food, clearly stalling. Jackson waits, patiently.

"They always thought games were a waste of time. My parents. My friends, too. Kid stuff. That or...violent nonsense. I love games, though. I really, really do. Maybe it's something I could...I don't know. Maybe."

"So..." Jackson hedges. "...what got you here?"

Thompson smiles down at his hands, a hesitant, flickering movement. It hits him he can't _quite_ pin the man's age.

"I needed them."

There's a story in his words. Jackson pulls out a little more patient, the quiet sounds of the college campus fading further into the back of his mind. Another memory bubbles up, of Mexican food and an aching woman, and he tucks it away.

"I used to work construction. Before getting into part-time administration. Maintenance and repair for windows and elevators and stuff. Tiring as hell, but it paid well and I was never without a paycheck. Always more stuff to fix." He puts on a forced little smile and slaps his legs. "Then I fell. Scaffolding wasn't up to snuff and broke. It be like that."

Jackson keeps a tight rein on the emotions on his face, though a trickle of sympathy can't help but wind out. It really only took one little oversight to ripple through the lives of another. The exact kind of thing that would turn a man spiritual.

"Um, I kind of was a fucking mess afterwards. I mean. In more ways than one." He tries a laugh, then fades back into shifting his way through his words. "...Got really depressed. Didn't work for a while, couldn't...bring myself to. Slept most of the day. Lost twenty pounds because I never had an appetite. Sorry if this sounds all over the place, I don't always piece it together right."

"It's like time has no meaning anymore." Jackson whispers. Thompson blinks up at him.

"Yeah, man. Exactly."

His colleague rubs at the brim of his hat, something else swelling up in his eyes.

"...Videogames were the only thing that made me want to wake up in the morning."

Mental illness was a language. One of its consistent throughlines, no matter the diagnosis or severity, was that _one_ thing. The thing that made it all bearable. The thing that moved food from mouth to plate. If it was more than one thing, even better. But just the one. Just the _one_ was needed.

"My last job..." It feels so _weird_ to call it that. "...has a game room. For therapy. Grey-Sloan Memorial."

" _Woah_. Seriously?"

"Yeah. It's clearly catching on. My girlfriend installed it, actually." Jackson feels an automatic, warm smile spread on his face. "Same with the ward I was committed to, they also had one. Gaming kept my head on straight when I swear it was going to roll off my shoulders."

The man's expression suggests his entire world's been tilted on its axis. He considers his words as he finishes his lunch.

"One...your girlfriend sounds _totally_ awesome."

"She is." Jackson whispers, crinkling the paper bag. "She really is."

"You said your mom's...abusive?" Thompson hedges the question carefully, making it clear he'll retract it as quickly as it came out. Jackson just nods.

"Yeah. Going through a falling out with her right now, actually. It's why I'm not...feeling all that great lately." He takes in a breath he can't quite fill to the top, then sighs it out shakily. "Among...other things."

"I'm sorry, man." He looks like he means it, and something about that presses somewhere tender. "My parents were... _are_...kind of shitbags, too. I mean, I just said that, but I meant in...that way. Not just concerning games."

Jackson stares tiredly at the ground. That fond warmth in his heart heats up in a different way, the questions aerating as they have been for days and days, picking up steam only to lose it just as quickly. Why couldn't it have been this easy with Maggie? Why did she support him one minute, then shrug off his needs the next? The conclusion is the same one he reached before, curled on the couch after his second beer and staring at a television that didn't interest him. He doesn't share the thought, not when the sentiment feels like it could burn off his tongue.

"I kind of went from one of the breadwinners to one of the burdens." Thompson adds. The pain is still near and dear, by the tight way he swallows. "I'm working and going back to school now, and they've gotten off my case, but, fuck, man. I don't know how to go back to that. That my value is tied into all the medical bills I brought on."

Then he clams up, much later than expected, and Jackson lets the conversation drop. He fills in the silence by sharing the waste of time disguised as a business meeting from earlier.

"His name was Thom, too. With an H." Jackson scoffs, holding his forehead. Thompson nearly chokes on his water.

"That's...awkward."

"I guess. Makes you the third I've come across lately." He mutters, finally rooting around in the bag for the rest of his food. French fries, by the feel of it. "He was full of shit, meanwhile you're the opposite."

"I mean, I said the same thing." Thompson adds, quietly. He's still embarrassed by it. "Called your game crazy."

"You actually apologized, though." Jackson shoves in a handful, his appetite suddenly returned and in full force. "You cared enough to."

***

_No, it's fine. I can take Harriet again., April, 1:10 p.m._

_i'm not blowing smoke up your ass, april. i meant it. she can stay with us. i think the family time would be good for all of us., Jackson, 1:11 p.m._

_Fine. Do what you want., April, 1:15 p.m._

_i'm not some unstable fucking monster just because you feel like i am, Jackson, 1:15 p.m._

_I didn't say that, Jackson!!! What is with you lately!!, April, 1:16 p.m._

***

Jackson wakes up on the couch after a dream painted in gold.

For a good minute (or more) he blinks up at the ceiling, one arm over his forehead in a pose he can't (won't) quite unstick. He's slept more this past year than he has his entire life, he thinks. He's not the only one taking a break: Maggie's decided to babysit Harriet today, firmly stir-crazy from so much time in the apartment and away from work. They're taking a spa day, as evidenced by the crooked selfies popping up on his phone over the past two hours. It looks like his near-begging for her to get out of the house has paid off.

_I took the bus. It's not as bad as cars. I think all the jibber-jabber from the passengers gets my mind off things., Maggie, 3:27 p.m._

Jackson rolls over into the scattered sunspot falling over Maggie's side of the bed, smile spreading on his face. She's sent him a selfie of her doing Harriet's hair, the slightly crooked angle suggesting the phone propped up on something soft. The girl is beaming a chubby smile next to a potted plant, her curls soggy and shiny with what could be oil or leave-in conditioner.

_Beautiful hair for a beautiful girl._ , it says below the photo in pink cursive.

Jackson gets dressed, then spends a few extra minutes in the bathroom. He rubs hands over his beard, short enough to curve around his jaw and thick enough to start showing curls. Once upon a time he used to hate looking in the mirror. It was as if _he_ was the reflection, and the one in the glass was the real man, trying to break through and claw back to reality. He cycles through the face products, then takes his time massaging in Maggie's new oil cleanser. Dissociation, he'd later realize. A side-effect of PTSD and the syrupy, bubbling anxiety it breeds.

A spot of cologne. A swish of mouthwash. He's almost done. Scruffy where he'd been sleek. Tired when he'd been energized. Twitchy eye and aching jaw and thousand-yard stare. This is him, in a life he holds close to his chest, and he wouldn't have him any other way. It's only one thing that cracks the glass-

_I don't remember killing him, Ben-_

Jackson's breath shakes, dropping the eye cream into the sink. It comes. It goes. It _left_ , buried beneath classwork and errands, and now it's staring him down again. That goddamn existential question that was asked on a monumental day perfect for saving lives. He hasn't brought up, to either therapist. Not when he's afraid it could tarnish the legal goodwill he'd managed and send him straight back to a ward. How could he remember the ceiling, but not the broken teeth? It doesn't make sense.

"This is my life." Saying things out loud gave them power. "This is my home."

Jackson pats on some of the new BB cream, then hurries out the door.

_on my way to pick you two up, Jackson, 5:39 p.m._

The spa is full of clientele, no doubt easing into the colder season with a little extra pampering on top of the winter vacation. Jackson breathes in deep when he walks inside, appreciating the ability to latch onto sensation. Everything smells of shea butter and perfumed vanilla. He finds Maggie standing outside one of the little rooms, holding her towel to her chest and tapping a thumb on her phone. Try as he may, it's difficult to temper his usual silent approach, and her head whips up with alarm when he speaks.

"...Hey."

"Oh. Hey."

His heart clutches a little with the distance. That automatic guilt that comes with lines in the sand, then the slow-yet-growing instinct to protect the need to process. He's been kept from human for so long it's actually scary when he comes face-to-face with boundaries and all they entail. Just beyond that boundary she's bundled up in a bathrobe with rosy cheeks and a few wet curls. The sight kicks up warm memories. Hot showers on a lazy Sunday. Mimosas after slow sex-

"Sorry, I still need to get dressed..." Maggie starts, reaching up to adjust her towel. Jackson waves a quick hand.

"No, you're fine. Looks like the spa did the trick."

She still looks tired, but there's a relaxed slope to her eyes he's painfully grateful to see. Maggie lets out a soft sigh.

"I feel like a new person." Her expression stills. Becomes a little cautious, a little careful. "You look good." Another pause. "Smell good, too."

"Well, this _is_ my fanciest sweatshirt." He says, lamely.

She smiles, right on time, but it's a little too tight. Jackson swallows back a sigh when she turns and 'busies' herself with her bag. They're not quite back to normal yet.

"...How's the case going?" He asks, studying the long length of her back as she organizes what's probably a spotless bag.

"I don't know. It's weird. Bailey and Parker send me updates, but they don't feel like enough. I didn't tell you about her boyfriend, did I?" She looks to him for clarification. It worries him how spotty her memory's gotten. He wonders about that concussion more than he'd like. "He called me a little while back. He was pretty upset. Kept telling me..." She pauses, then covers her face. "Sorry. I shouldn't be sharing this."

"No, I could probably guess." He assures. There's another point in the surreal gap between him and the hospital now. "Pre-birth jitters. I felt them, too."

"Yeah. That and..." She shakes her head, quickly. "...Yeah."

The spa hustles sweetly around them, good smells and relaxing sounds, though the air between them lingers on a more awkward slant. She's respecting his boundaries, now. Masterfully, with how she doesn't stand too close and pretends to be interested in a text message on her phone. Jackson stuffs his hands in his pockets and counts the marble tiles on the wall. ...It stings, still. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore, it's technically over and done with, but...

"Daddy, Daddy, _Daddy!_ "

Jackson automatically leans down and spreads his arms wide, catching Harriet and standing right back up to swing her around.

"Princess, look at you. So shiny and clean!"

"Mags and me did the clay face." She's back in her little tunic dress and winter leggings, though her hair is characteristically half-dry. "We put cucumbers on our eyes. Like this."

Jackson slaps a shocked hand on his cheek.

"Wow, your eyes look so _clean_ , too."

Harriet drops her head back and _groans_ , horrified her plastics expert father still doesn't understand how this whole skincare thing works. Jackson takes one of the nearby rags and dries her hair off properly, then holds her on his hip as he heads back to the car, watching Maggie's hair sway in the wind. When she reaches the door her shoulders hike up into a familiar coathanger stiffness. He briefly considers calling off his idea. No...he'll let her decide. He certainly wasn't going to choose what he _thought_ was better for her.

"Bakery opened up after a recent renovation." He says, hiking up Harriet under the crook of his arm when she threatens to slip. "They serve legendary macarons, from what I've heard."

Maggie slowly looks over her shoulder, brow furrowed in a terse line. Harriet, on the other hand, perks up like a squirrel next to a peanut factory.

"I want one! _I want one!_ Daddy, can I have a macaron-"

"How about I get you an _entire_ bag." He kisses the top of her head, though his eyes remain on the woman frozen by the car. "You can save a few for your friends."

Jackson and Harriet both turn in unison for her answer. Maggie is still. Contemplating.

"...Maybe a few for my dad." She doesn't look at him. "He texted me back a little while ago. He said he wants to visit."

Jackson's eyes widen. ...Oh. _Oh._ That's big. He leans forward a little, trying to read the mix of emotions brewing on her face. They just got back talking, she said, but they haven't seen each other in person since her mother died. There's a lot he doesn't know about. Maggie doesn't add anything to that, wordlessly clicking open the car door and sidling inside, shutting it as delicately as if it were made of paper. Jackson kisses Harriet's cheek again, muttering for her attention.

"Hey, princess. You remember Maggie got into a crash?"

"Yeah." She squeaks, lowering her voice to match his level. "The hot water is good for her neck, we were in there for a long time. It was my idea because I read about in a journal."

His precious girl, already taking after her medical legacy without so much as blinking. He puts on an exaggerated affect, glancing from side-to-side, then leaning back in.

"That's fantastic. Now, can you talk to her in the car for me and keep her busy? Talk about something fun, like Disney movies or your favorite animal?" He holds up a conspiratorial finger. "If you talk to her about something fun, she won't focus on the car so much and will feel _much_ better."

Harriet's eyes widen with her new task. She's a motor mouth the entire way there, going on a rather impressive ramble about how _very_ much she loves Lilo & Stitch. Jackson keeps his eyes firmly on the road, save for when he's at a traffic light and he's 'checking' the rearview mirror. Maggie is a little pale, as she always is in a vehicle, but her eyes never leave Harriet, her smile as warm as ever. When they step back out evening is settling in, a hearty orange blush on the horizon. The district they're in is a medley of glowing lights and new tinsel.

"I know what you did." Maggie sighs. Jackson blinks his best innocence.

"Did what?"

She makes as if to nudge him, then just folds her arms and starts walking down the sidewalk to the blue hole-in-the-wall sliver. Jackson locks the car, then takes Harriet's hand and follows.

"I'm just glad I didn't throw up." She mutters when he catches up, cold misting the air with each word. "I keep _wanting_ to, but it never quite makes it up past my esophagus. Penny tells me that's progress. Doesn't feel like it, but it is." She shudders when a stiff breeze winds past the buildings. "I still really don't like riding in them, though."

"We can go biking more often." He offers. "Just to get you moving and seeing the sights, get you accustomed to that sort of speed again."

Maggie shivers again, and it must be her still-drying hair that has her so cold. He's suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to get in close, kiss the cold away and pull her flush against his side. For all they were a vital and healthy habit he needed to learn, sometimes boundaries really fucking sucked. The little bakery is teeming with color and delicious scents that get his stomach growling, right on time. He'll never get over how nice it is to have a steady appetite again. Harriet squeaks and slaps her hands on the pastry glass.

" _Ah!_ Pretty! Pretty, I love these ones-"

"Gentle, princess." Jackson reminds. She switches to a light tap on the glass, shaking with repressed energy.

"Can I have the lemon? I want the lemon and, and...the pink one. I really like this one, Daddy. It's magical."

Maggie drifts over by his side, that distant look in her eyes temporarily fading at the sights before her. They're all little distractions, but he'll take what he can get.

"All right. We'll get those." Jackson keeps a steadying hand on Harriet's back as she shuffles from side-to-side. "Can you choose some magical macarons for your friends?"

Harriet hums, shuffling from side-to-side as she studies the menagerie before her. Something else catches her eye, as distracting as anything colorful is to a child's eye, and she's scampering across the little store to coo at the tiny cakes. Maggie lingers over the cookies, eyes scrolling, but not quite lingering. Jackson does his best browsing stance, watching her out of the corner of her eye. He wonders if their winery could inspire the same warmth in visitors. That sense of everything being relaxed and okay, if only for a bit.

"...See anything you like?"

"I think you're trying to fatten me up."

"So that's a no."

It's hard to get her to smile nowadays. Maggie's mouth lifts up halfway to the expression, then sort of floats there, her eyes sinking down to scan the pastries and donuts.

"I don't have much of an appetite lately."

"That's okay."

They browse in silence a few minutes, his ear cocked firmly in the direction of Harriet cooing across the little lobby. Maggie's thinking deeply on something. Those dark eyes are so expressive, it feels like he could read her thoughts perfectly, with just a little more willpower.

"Thinking about new medical innovations?" He asks, in some attempt at cheeriness. It's a bad question. She wilts.

"When am I _not_. Can't really be involved until I get the go-ahead from my therapist that I'm on the up-and-up. If I get an innovation it'll probably be three years too late, if I don't just end up making the twins grow a third head."

They both fall quiet, the soft hubbub from the workers and the pop song on the intercom filling in the gap. Jackson inwardly kicks himself. Maggie was a woman of singularly devoted passions. She literally ate, drank and breathed her field of hearts. What the _hell_ else would she be thinking about? Maggie says something else, which he doesn't catch through the mental bruising.

"What?" He blinks once, then again at her funny little look. "Sorry, I didn't catch that. What'd you say?"

"...You had another nightmare." She repeats. Her mouth hangs open for a second, as if she has more to say, then just adds, "Last night."

Oh. Jackson rolls his jaw and pretends to be curious about a plate of eclairs.

"You heard that?"

"A little. Are you, um..." She looks sidelong at him, or perhaps she's looking at the eclairs, too. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it yet. What...happened. I just hope...you don't hurt more than you need to. Even though you told me you sometimes...need it."

Jackson swallows slowly. She's trying to understand him. All of him, as best she can.

"This...isn't the kind I need." He admits. A sharp note of panic rises up in his throat, sudden and pinching. "You know I'd never hurt you, right?"

Maggie leans back a little, eyes widening.

"What? Of course you wouldn't..."

Of course. It's that simple for her, as he wants it to be. It should be for him, but doubt has him in a chokehold and he can hardly see two feet in front of him. He just doesn't want to be a liability. Dangerous. Painful. Not like before. Maggie takes a step closer, searching his face in that open, slow way he suddenly needs more than anything else.

"Jackson..." She whispers, reaching up to touch his coat, probably adjust his collar, then pulls it back down again. "The only thing that scares me is when you go silent like that. When I can see how much something's eating you up inside."

Jackson stares at her, struggling with the silent urge to hold her, or retreat for a little longer. Harriet runs up with some cookies in her hand. They must've come from the sample tray by the counter.

"Mags!" She squeals, hopping in an attempt to bridge the gap in height. "Smell this one, it looks like a moon and smells like lemon-"

Maggie looks to her. Then to him. Then away, covering her mouth and blanching from her hairline to her jawline. Jackson slowly frowns. Harriet's cheer fizzles. She curls her goodies to her chest, looking up at him nervously.

"...Daddy? Did I say something wrong?"

"No, sweetheart. Just hold on a second." He touches Maggie's shoulder. She's shaking. _Hard._ "Maggie?"

" _U-Um._ "

Oh. Shit.

"Maggie, Maggie. Hey. Hey." Jackson turns her to face him. Her face is washed out as if in the glare of the sun, eyes glistening- "I'm here. I'm here."

"I need to _go_ , Jackson. I can't be here. I can't, I just can't."

"Okay. That's okay. Let's go outside."

Right on cue Maggie starts to hyperventilate, sharp intakes of breath that sound like the scrunch of a leather seat. Harriet is hunched a foot away, round brown eyes thoroughly confused. They've already attracted attention. One of the employees by the desk holds out their phone, intent evident on their face before they start dialing. Jackson waves a quick hand.

"We're fine. She's fine. She's just having a panic attack."

"Are you sure you don't need me to call someone-"

"I don't think so. Can you just get me a glass of water, please?"

Jackson places both hands on Maggie's shoulders, bracing her as best he can. She blinks, foggily, her breath still coming out in short, shallow pants.

"I think...I think I'm having a heart attack-" She starts. Jackson shakes his head, keeping his voice the same susurration he's used for terrified patients.

"It's not a heart attack. You're okay, you're just panicking."

"J-Jackson, are you sure, I feel like, I can't breathe, I _can't-_ "

Maggie claws at her chest, like she could pull her heart out, and his own heart clenches into a hot, miserable fist. If he could, he'd pull the panic out of her like pus from a wound and take it on himself. _Anything_ to give her peace. Then his daughter shifts back into their space.

"Mags? Mags, you need to breathe." Harriet whispers, pressing her hand on Maggie's hip. "Like me."

It was over a year ago, but his little girl remembers that peaceful afternoon, clear as crystal. Jackson smiles, filled with an abrupt swell of pride, then puts a hand on Maggie's cheek.

"That's right. Maggie. Maggie, look at me." He whispers and whispers, until she's staring up at him. "There you go. We're going outside, okay? Get a little fresh air, breathe it all out. I won't let anything happen to you. Come on."

It's funny. The glass comes and goes, as if it has a life of its own, but right now he feels as if it couldn't enter his life even if it wanted to. He's sharply aware of the press of concrete and the cold bite of the evening breeze as they step outside. How Maggie shivers and sways in his grip, beyond good sense as she struggles against a fresh Hell of her own. She looks down at the water cup he's placed in her hands.

"Hey, there." He murmurs. "You're okay."

She looks around them in a daze. She's still registering the street corner they're on.

"Here. Take a sip."

Her hands bounce, hard enough to scatter droplets on her blouse. Jackson steadies a hand beneath hers, tilting it against her lips with his other hand on her upper back. It's not the cold that has her shaking this time.

"Why is everything so _hard_ lately?"

"I wish I knew."

Jackson blows out a sigh and stares off into the fading sunlight. It's peeling up the buildings in a wash of salmon, popping out the surrounding trees in striking silhouettes Thompson could probably turn into a mean ink drawing. Maggie is staring down something of her own, coat collar flicking fitfully around her curls. Harriet nibbles quietly on her macaron, careful to lick the frosting off her fingertips and bouncing her feet. It's a tender image, somehow, despite the cold filter laid over an otherwise rosy day.

"...Might be a test." He offers, when the sentiments sort themselves out into words. "Might just be a string of pain before a string of victories."

Maggie looks sidelong at him.

"...Do you really think that?"

Jackson slowly smiles.

"I'm trying to. It feels...better than the alternative. Gives it purpose." He gently thumbs a smudge of purple off Harriet's cheek. "You know?"

"I'm usually good at tests." Maggie takes another sip. "This one's been flubbed."

"Come on. I think you did great. You told me what you needed. Pretty quickly. Normally people try to play it off or blame it on something else." He leans forward to put elbows on his knees. "I did."

"I'm sorry to make you do this. You don't have to wait for me to cool off. I can call Alex."

Jackson sighs. He curls an arm around Harriet so he can better shift over and look at Maggie properly.

"Maggie. Just because I'm hurt by what you did doesn't mean I want to see you suffer." He looks away, trying to occupy his gaze when his heart starts to beat unsteadily. "...That said, why did you do that? I think I know, but...I'd rather hear it from you."

She's so much hurt in a small package. Maggie twists and tugs at the little bag's knot.

"Grief." She whispers. "I kept thinking about Mom."

Jackson closes his eyes. ...Yeah. That's what he suspected. He doesn't want to dash it away. How _could_ he, when he still had an aching slice of himself with Diane's name on it?

"It's not the same-" He starts, as gently as he's able. Maggie shakes her head quickly.

"I know. I know it's not. I...felt like it was, but it's not." Her mouth trembles. "I thought I was helping."

The road to Hell was paved with good intentions. He walked that road with his mother. Briefly with his father. With April, though hindsight is suggesting even the intentions were less than divine.

"I thought I was helping, and I _hurt_ you." Maggie rubs at her eyes, pinches the area between her nose and brows. She doesn't try to hold it back. Harriet has seen her cry before. "I thought I was helping her, and I hurt her. It seems all I do is hurt the ones I love when all I want is the opposite."

That seemed to be the way life goes. It makes him wonder if this sort of pain will always happen, at least sometimes, and the best he can hope for is mitigate it. Harriet has grown bored of her surroundings, holding up a sticky macaron.

"This will make you feel better." She declares. "It's medicine."

Baby wisdom at its finest. Maggie huffs. She takes it and gives it a nibble.

"It tastes amazing. Wow." She holds it up to the fading light like a rare treasure. "I didn't know medicine could be _this_ good. They should serve this at hospitals."

"Better than what they usually have." Jackson adds, coughing politely into one shoulder. "Things that are good for you really should taste a little better."

"Yeah." She agrees, simply, and eats the rest.

They sit in a softer silence now. Their shoulders are brushing, in that way they used to before love declarations and surprising truths spilled from their mouths, and it even makes his stomach flutter in the same way. When the wind catches on them a little of that spa brushes beneath his nose. Shea butter. Tea tree oil and vanilla. Jackson feels his appetite struggle against the sugary sweets in his hands, craving something else. Maggie looks over to him, a hint of exhaustion starting to show itself in her hunch.

"How are your finals?"

"Going smoothly. The next version of the game's finished, I'm just bug testing and fine tuning details that probably don't need any more tweaking. Had someone interested in funding my game as a potential addition to, uh, college assignments. Medical universities and individual classes." Jackson stuffs a macaron into his mouth, talking around it. "He also didn't know what the _hell_ he was talking about."

She can already guess it. He sees it in the sympathetic sharpening of her eyes and her pointed, attentive silence. Jackson waves an annoyed hand.

"He just kept...framing it as this trendy, crazy horror thriller thing. Not what I was going for. _At all_. I know videogames are pretty bad when it comes to mental health, but I thought my demo was clear on where I stood on the matter."

"Casual ableism is exhausting." She sighs gustily. "What a downer. You must've been so excited."

"Sure. I mean, that's not the end of it. Got me thinking about the future of my game, at least." He holds out a hand and bobs it from side-to-side. "In a...strangle-y sort of way."

Maggie almost laughs at that, biting it back at the last second so all he hears is a wet little cough. It feels like a success, still. Jackson pauses when Harriet bumps a macaron against his mouth.

"Eat more, Daddy. You'll feel better."

He's going to have to jog twice as long to burn this off. Ah, well. Jackson takes the sweet, dangling between his teeth, and tries to catch Maggie's line of sight in some attempt at goofiness. Her gaze slips away, back off to the street.

"Jackson?"

"Hm?"

"Is it always going to be like this?"

This hard. This tiring. The question echoes, in the bags under her eyes and the hopelessness in her voice. Jackson resists the urge to run fingers along her hair, where the curls have started to dry back up into their fluffy, wispy selves.

"...Not always."

Maggie looks back down. It's the truth, and the truth sometimes hurts. Jackson leans a little, trying to catch her gaze.

"Do you remember what I said? On the hospital bed?"

Her expression flickers, troubled. This poor woman. Her newly spotty memory is another thing she has to worry about, starting to pile up into its own personal mountain. All the more reason, and then some, to repeat what he knows.

"One way or another, I'm always going to be here." He finally gives in to the urge and reaches over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Maggie leans into his touch, and he lets her. "Always."

Before the hit the road he takes a moment to thank the bakery workers for their concern and tosses a fat tip into the jar. On the drive home he's hit with a wave of exhaustion so heavy it feels like a a double-weighted blanket. It's all he can do to pinch himself awake as they linger in evening traffic, Brian McKnight thumping softly through their speakers. Harriet is more than aware of the odd nature of the adults in her life, quietly poking a crayon in her coloring book in the back seat. Maggie, on the other hand, is dozing, her purse used as a makeshift pillow against the window.

He could sing when he finally pulls into their parking space. It's heartbreaking having to wake her. He knows all too well how exhausting panic attacks are. Jackson leads Maggie and Harriet out of the car, double-checks the locks, then walks them up the newly frosted steps.

"I'll put Harriet to bed." He says, watching her rub her eyes. "Get some rest."

"I..." She starts, an automatic protest from an auntie and a big sister both, then droops. "...thank you."

They linger in the doorway for a few seconds. He can hear her swallow. He wants to kiss her forehead, offer a little more, but...not yet. Not yet.

"Of course." He says, quietly.

She stares at him like a sunset. Holding onto every second. Maggie smiles down at the floor and nods, in that loose and vague sort of way, turns around and walks inside.

Harriet seems to save her rambunctious energy for school nowadays. That, or she's feeling like behaving after Maggie's episode. She asks for a bedtime story, which he tells her on the edge of the bed, then rubs her back to help her doze a little more smoothly. He washes his face, then drifts back to his sculpting desk to craft nonsense shapes. Heads and feathers and shards. Sometimes he grips the clay like a stress ball, just to feel the tension shake out of him again.

The night crawls, yet flies by, and he remains just a little out-of-sync with time. He checks his email once more, then updates his journal for his next therapy session. Maggie only comes into the room once, setting something on his desk and walking out without a word.

It's a cup of coffee in his favorite mug, a latte heart floating in the middle.

* * *

_Embrace failure. It may not feel like it sometimes, but it loves you dearly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This was a batshit week._
> 
> The news circuit is awful enough as it is, and true to 2021's wretched start I recently got out of a three day long power outage. My state was hit by nasty windstorms that left tens of thousands without power. It caused a few casualties, several trips to the hospital and a metric ton of property damage. Walking through the neighborhood afterwards was like navigating the apocalypse. Oh, I've never been so _happy_ to have hot food and a working heater again.
> 
> Aaanyway.
> 
> To those who've been reading since the beginning and those coming in new, I hope this fic is giving you some hardcore escapism. Goodness knows I need it. These updates are taking longer than usual because the first half of this fic was mostly written out, while the last half is mostly notes. Fun fact! The last scene was one of the very first I wrote for this series, albeit heavily shuffled around since then. I thought it'd be an interesting flip for Maggie to be on the receiving end of a near-deadly trauma, with Jackson now in the position to gather her up. Technically he has been gathering her up, but. You know what I mean.
> 
> Also, isn't it fascinating how songs that technically aren't sad can still get you weepy? I'm really sensitive to nostalgia and those...frozen-in-time sort of memories.


	8. around we are

**Song Inspiration:** "Beretta Lake" by Teflon Sega ft. SAINT JHN

*

_i'm in that fast lane_

_riding from my wrongs_

_and when I lose my faith_

_i'm hopeless_

_but I'm yours_

*

_Why haven't you given up yet?_

_It's a question some can answer easily, and bless them for it. How wonderful it is to never reach such a conundrum. To be so smooth and assured on the crooked trajectory of life that purpose is as easy as breathing, the concept of breathing itself free from doubt, and the breath of life shared with boundless compassion. Asking the question isn't a mark against you, however. If anything, it just shows how firmly you grasp the weight of it all. Your potential. Your pain._

_So ask yourself, whether you're stout, swayed or disillusioned. Why?_

* * *

_"I tried to call you a little while back. I couldn't...I just didn't know what to say."_

_"I know. I mean...I know you called. Not everything else. It has been a while, Maggie."_

_So much time has passed, yet the timber of his voice through the phone snips right through the distance. She can see his receding hairline in the faded light of his kitchen office, Boston rain pattering endlessly on the little window between the green curtains he keeps saying he'll throw out and the old lamp he refuses to. Maggie crushes her eyes shut, her own breath struggling to bless the illusion. Cement herself in the untouched, perfect feel of it. It's just that...everything feels like it can slip from her grasp, her memories included, every second-_

_"I've been worried about you." He sounds more tired than usual. Then again, her usual has been stuffed full of long, silent months, and this could be his new usual. "I mean, you seem to be doing well, with your job and your new...support system..."_

_He trails off, those long months swiftly revealing their lack of knowledge. All the things she didn't share with him because she ran instead of facing up with what happened. Maggie twists her feet beneath the blankets, as softly as she can so she doesn't wake Jackson._

_"Yeah. Um. I'm..." She shakes her breath out, in some attempt at calm. "...good."_

_"You don't sound good, Maggie." She can see the wrinkles in his forehead, too. The gentle cresting of that critical hill whenever she hitches up her defenses. "You sound tired and stressed."_

_Maggie chuckles, sadly._

_"I could say the same about you, Dad."_

_He gets another call from a potential client, then, and puts her on another line while he sorts it out. Too many thoughts rush in to fill the void, furious at all the time they've been neglected. Was he still working in real estate? Did he retire early, like he kept saying he wanted to, only to fall back on the workaholism that defined both sides of her family tree? Did he hate her for shutting down and pulling away after Mom drifted away on a sunny afternoon?_

_The woman that went behind his back in the worst way and he still loved, way deep down where the hurt couldn't reach?_

_She doesn't nibble on her fingers -- always hated the sensation, hated the way they looked afterward -- but she sympathizes with those who can't help it. Jackson hasn't budged all the while, the soft slope of his back rising and falling as steady as a rocking boat. He doesn't quite snore, but there's a hoarse burr to his breath that says he's sleeping deep. When her father returns to the call he's softer than ever. The thoughts must've rushed in for him, too._

_"We don't have to talk about everything at once. I feel better just knowing you're here."_

_Maggie reaches up to rub at that little spot between her neck and shoulder, an eternally stiff little muscle that has refused to budge since her world spun all over again. A little girl with curly hair and glasses watches her from the crack in the bedroom doorway, a cluster of Post-It notes in her hand._

***

"Tell me if I'm pulling too hard."

"You're not."

Jackson's surgical mastery was unparalleled. He mentored under the great Mark Sloan, was painstakingly guided by Richard Webber and, according to a story over dinner, even beat _Christina Yang_ at a surgical precision test. His legendary attention to detail translates well into hair detangling. She can hardly feel a pluck of hair as he weaves clever fingers along her scalp and susses out tiny knot after tiny knot. Little shivers of pleasure tingle up her shoulders as he moves closer to the nape of her neck and inches his way to the source, casually efficient to a fault.

The pain is next to nothing now, little more than a telltale stiffness when she raises her arms past a certain point. He's nonetheless insisted on sparing her the taxing ordeal of detangling and deep-conditioning, just to be on the safe side. Alex _still_ won't let her drive, either, somehow finding the time to ferry her from point A to point B when the bus schedule proves too slow. Sabi and Amelia are constantly peppering her with food videos and cat memes to cheer her up, Meredith content to offer her late-night advice over the phone. One way or another, her little circle has healed her. She's stitched back together magnificently.

Her choice of a documentary on kite fight festivals in India is a slightly odd pick for a lazy Wednesday evening, but somehow hits the spot, anyway.

"It's _amazing_ the way we pass the time." Jackson murmurs, once the narrator starts discussing the glass-and-clay mixture used to sharpen kite strings for battle. He idly runs the side of his hand along her edges, gathering up a little extra conditioner to pull them into the rest of her curls. "Never would've thought up anything like this."

Maggie hums her agreement and nuzzles her face against his fingers. He responds with a slick brush of his knuckles against her temple, careful to avoid her brows. Yes, she's feeling better than she has in _several_ weeks. She's ready to go back to work.

...Physically.

"Think the last time I flew a kite was when I was seven. Here we have sixty year-old men mentoring young adults on how to duke it out in the sky." Jackson chuckles, deep in his chest. "How is this so strange and so _badass_."

The difference between her goals and her reality remain a disparate canyon. Her therapist _still_ hasn't given her the go-ahead to return to work. Her sessions have been remote for the past few weeks, just as unfettered and vulnerable as they've always been, but every time she's asked for her progress Penny reigns back her optimism. It's starting to feel ridiculous at this point. So what if she's a little rattled on the inside? Emotional and mental wounds _always_ healed slower than physical ones. It didn't mean she couldn't still perform her usual miracles.

Then Jackson's done, far too soon, and his touch retreats.

"There." He knits his fingers together and pops his hands with a satisfied grunt. "Let me know when you want to rinse it out. Bottle says five minutes minimum, so I'd give it fifteen."

"Okay."

Jackson gives her shoulder a little squeeze before getting to his feet and heading past the kitchen, probably to take a shower of his own.

Maggie stares after his retreat, damp-headed and heavy-hearted. ...They don't kiss or hug now. They haven't had sex in what feels like forever. Jackson treats her with the same tenderness he always does, the apartment filled again with the gentle air that comes with his presence, but...there's an invisible barrier. It manifests whenever they get a _little_ too close. Talk a _little_ too long, in the way that time has started to measure itself after that screaming match he and his mother had in the hallway.

The boundaries he's been practicing. One of the hardest things he's had to do, in his own words, even when measured against his demanding former plastics career and death-defying feats of heroism. She respects it. Knows it's what he needs, even as it scrapes the raw parts of her she's not sure will ever heal. It doesn't stop her from craving him. Every inch. She breathes in the lingering scent of him on the couch, a weary, thoughtful voice murmuring in the far reaches of her mind.

_Either he’s terrible for you or he’s so good for you you’re scared you’ll lose him._

Right on cue, she hears the shower down the hall turn on with a steamy _hiss_. Maggie sets her phone's timer for twenty minutes, then leans back to finish the documentary.

***

_there's a windstorm headed our way in a few days, heads up, Amelia, 9:01 a.m._

_great., Maggie, 9:15 a.m._

_want to do another sleepover? I mean, we have backup generators, but it'd be a fun excuse, Amelia, 9:18 a.m._

_I dont really have the appetite for it. Another time?, Maggie, 9:30 a.m._

_Maggie, are you okay? Is this about Jackson? Work? Your neck?, Amelia, 9:31 a.m._

_The fact you can name so much says plenty, Maggie, 9:45 a.m._

_No kidding. You've been through a lot. Just make sure to talk to us, Maggie. I know how you get., Amelia, 9:50 a.m._

***

"Oh, Maggie. I really wish I could. I'm _so_ sorry."

Maggie's soul withers into limp pasta at Penny's expression. The woman looks as sympathetic as she always does, but with a resounding firmness that belies her usual cheery demeanor. This _might've_ been a less-than-stellar conversation starter. Alex had been reliably down-to-earth on the matter when driving her over, but she just _had_ to go and stick an optimistic sticker on top of the emotional rubble.

"As your psychologist, I can't in good conscience allow you to go back to work when you still have a few major hurdles to clear. You've told me you still get nervous at too much movement, even when you're outside of a car, and your short-term memory is still on the spotty side. Then there was that breakdown you had at the pastry shop. _Perfectly_ normal, of course, but probably not the best headspace to approach a high-stakes surgery with." She reaches up to give her little twinkly earring a tweak. They're golden cupcakes, smartly fitting her ruffly pink dress. "Honesty is the best policy, after all."

Maggie twists her purse strap. She feels that familiar presence at her back. Of a gangly little girl who had to work her hardest when she was at her worst, because the alternative was...

"...Then let _me_ be honest, here. I have a patient..." She pauses. "... _had_ a patient with a very unique medical issue that needs my undivided attention. Being kept away from the hospital for so long has put me in a difficult position to give her the help she needs. I've _always_ worked best by doing, not just offering advice in the background or sending the usual confirmation on notes. 'Good job! Yep, looks good. I _think_ , anyway, since I can't visit the office and see all the equipment myself'."

Penny frowns. She opens up her laptop and starts typing in a glitter of pink fingers, not looking at her. Maggie's heart flutters tightly.

"I won't be alone. I'll still have the chief of staff and skilled scrub nurses to help me out. If anything happens, _anything_ whatsoever, I'll turn the work back over to them. Even if I'm in the middle of a surgery. I've gotten so good at recognizing my symptoms before they get too bad. I know all the warning signs. My boyfriend helps me with them, too. He's the closest I have to a home therapist without actually being one."

It's a speech she's practiced in the mirror (after Jackson goes out for his morning jog). She's imagined every single last scenario in her head, _just_ like the days when she was in grad school painstakingly mapping out her intro lines, bodies and closers. Penny's expression isn't one of pensive consideration, nor is it a wash of pleasant surprise. It's a little sad. She taps a key, _clicks_ her laptop shut again, then knits her fingers on the case.

"...Anyone would be lucky to have you for their doctor, Maggie." She says, softly. "Even for a little while."

Alex asks her what's wrong when she returns to the car. Maggie asks if they can put off their lunch date, her appetite off in the trees.

***

This is _ridiculous_.

It's a pretty convincing mantra her logical brain is spitting at her when she steps off the bus in front of Grey-Sloan, clearly not happy with being ignored so often lately. It echoes in her knocking knees (the ground is just a little icy, that's all), then _again_ in her trembling hands (it's pretty cold now that December's hit). The voice gets louder as she strolls through the hospital's shiny lobby. She catches Parker in the corner of her eye by the receptionist's desk, feels the urge to stop and catch up, but she can't. Not now.

Bailey's reaction is suitably undesirable, but this is a response she's practiced in the mirror for, too.

"Dr. Pierce, I can't let you fully back on this case until your therapist feels you're emotionally and mentally sound. _Please_ don't make me pull rank and keep you physically barred from the hospital."

Maggie grips a ball of air and resists the urge to let out a very uncharacteristic screech. _She just wants to work!_

"Bailey, please. I _need_ to be back here. It's not the same being cooped up at home, I need to be in my office, around everyone else, cooking up strategies a-and..." She reaches out to her in some stupid, desperate fit. "I was hoping _you_ could talk to her, put in a good word for me-"

" _Maggie_."

The woman promptly gets up from around her desk and walks up, straightening herself to her full height and holding a finger right beneath her collarbone.

" _You_ need to be at home, relaxing with a cup of tea and a good book. Spending time with your boyfriend, with your sisters and your nieces. Playing with those cute little rechargeable heart keychains, because I know you do that." She shakes her finger in warning. "Don't lie."

"...I _do_ play with them." Maggie mutters, then shakes her head. "But I really feel like I can. Heck, I might be better off in the OR than at home-"

"How long did it take you to drive here?"

What? Maggie opens her mouth...and hesitates. Bailey cocks an eyebrow.

"You took the bus here, didn't you."

Just like that, the conversation's over. Oh, she must've been hit in the head harder than she thought, because there was no way in any planet or any dimension she was going to outsmart Bailey. On her own _case_ , no less. The woman looks like she's reading her mind, nothing but smooth confidence as she leans back on her heels.

"Now...what _did_ your therapist tell you, specifically?"

Maggie wilts.

"That I'm...not ready. That I still have a few things to work on."

The first flicker of sympathy breaks through the professionalism. Bailey reaches out and pats her shoulder. It makes her feel worse, well before she hears the next part.

"Not to burst your bubble, but...your patient would've done poorly with _or_ without your help at this point."

"What?" Maggie breathes. "Why?"

The new report has only a few new days' worth of changes, but it's enough to make her feel woozy.

The twins are still developing in the final stretch, but _barely_. Their muscle mass is lower than it should be for the last few weeks, suggesting a premature birth on top of the hemophilia, and one baby's liver is on the very brink of failing. Maggie's eyes scroll back and forth, drinking in the familiar slew of information in the sterile room. She can't help but think of when she operated on an infant outside the womb. The miracles that could be pulled...and the ones that _couldn't_. A distant note rings in her mind again, that familiar surge of inspiration that always seems to tickle at her, but it doesn't make it through.

Bailey sighs and crosses her arms. There's a distant look of acceptance on her face, one her medical soul _absolutely_ rejects, but there's nothing she can really say against it. Not yet. Not with these stats staring her in the face.

"It's not looking good." Bailey reaches over to zoom in on the recent x-ray, enough that they can see the round, knobbly faces of the twins-to-be. "Even _if_ we find a liver match, the surgery itself will be a huge risk. I've already had to tell Rose to expect the worst, because anything less than that is going to feel like a miracle. Maggie, I know you'll help whatever way you can. That isn't just a useless platitude meant to make you feel better. You are one of the brightest minds I've ever encountered. You _always_ find a way." She pauses, as if wrestling with an internal decision, then: "Do you want to talk to Rose?"

Personally, no. Medically, _yes_. She was still her doctor, no matter how intensive her medical-related leave, and she was going to see this through to the end.

"You're still not supposed to be here for too long, so let's just say hi on the tablet real quick."

Maggie hastily reaches up to push some of her hair into place. Bailey mutters under her breath that she's being too darn nice as she turns on the tablet and props it up on her desk. It rings a few times, the screen dark enough for her to tuck her curls in _just_ right. Then it blinks toward a white wall. The camera shifts a little, then Rose peers into the screen, hair wrapped up in a tired ball and eyes bruised as if she just woke up. She's laying in bed, the jacket draped over the chair next to her suggesting her boyfriend's still here.

"Hey, Rose." Maggie starts, with a smile. "I know it's been a while since we've spoken. I wanted to check in on you."

" _Same thing as always. Same room. Same gross food._ " She rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm. Her skin is as sallow as ever, which makes her wonder just how much of a toll this pregnancy is taking on her. " _No offense._ "

"None taken. I keep wondering where that food budget goes myself."

The woman studies the screen, pensively.

" _...You feeling okay? Dr. Parker said you got into a bad crash._ "

Maggie blinks.

"Um, yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. Head and neck's healed." She puts on a stiff smile when Bailey gives her a meaningful squint. "Just...buffing out the rest of the damage with my therapist."

" _Oh, yeah. Good idea. I probably need one of those._ "

It's a hard sentence to bounce off of. Thankfully, she's had (made) more than enough awkward moments in her life to be fluent in segues. Maggie puts on a wider smile she _tries_ to internalize, because at the end of the day she's not the one with the loss on the horizon.

"We're talking about your twins right now. It's tough work, but we're doing our best. We've got a few more hurdles to work out right now concerning one of the livers."

Rose's eyes flick away. Her thin hands twist the blanket. She looks like she wants to sleep for a long time.

" _I know they're not going to survive. I just...want to get it over with._ "

Her heart sinks to the bottom of her feet. She wants to tell her not to give up yet. That there was still _time_. The feed then clicks off, anti-climactically, and they're both left awkwardly staring at a blank screen.

"She talked to you a _lot_ longer than expected." Bailey says, in some attempt at levity. "I was banking on one minute instead of three." Her voice dips. "Her parents came to visit her a few days back. I'll spare you the details, but it wasn't pretty."

"What happened?" She asks, already dreading the answer. Bailey tilts her head.

"Let's just say...I can see why she put so much stock into this pregnancy."

An ugly picture unfolds in her mind. Negligence. High pressure. Disappointment. Many of those she outran as a child, sometimes unsuccessfully. Maggie fiddles with her coat hem, suddenly feeling _very_ selfish. She came all this way to badger Bailey to break her own protocol when she's busy enough as it is.

"...Well. I don't blame her for being out of energy. I just hope this pregnancy won't take her with it." It sounds miserable, saying it aloud, but doctors weren't supposed to downplay the truth. "What about you, Bailey?" Maggie reaches out to hold her elbow, and by extension, her composure. "How have you been holding up?"

Her superior knows it's not just a question about work. The first little crack shows. Bailey's face falls out of its stern set, eyes roaming the room for somewhere to settle and dwell.

"Ben is..." Her shoulders slump. "...Ben."

That's somehow incredibly specific and _agonizingly_ vague. Maggie wrenches her eyes away from the screen and scooches a little closer.

"I just...I don't know." She drops her arms in a helpless flop. "He's been working on a thousand projects for the boys and hardly says two words to me when I get home. He's... _cheerful_ , as he always is, but...distracted. Always throwing himself into something or another."

It's about the shooting. It _has_ to be. Jackson's been doing something similar, navigating his usual slew of homework, exercise and napping in an unbroken pattern, but she's seen the hitches, and it's only the knowledge he's been committing so _fiercely_ to therapy that keeps her from being even more worried.

"I know you know what it's like." Bailey adds, taking her hand. "Down to the letter."

"Yeah." Maggie whispers.

They sit in silence, again. Bailey was so practical to the point many believed she was a woman who never needed a reminder, much less advice. It's not true. Everyone does.

"Talk to him about it. Just...start the conversation. If you wait until it gets worse..." She trails off. Nobody in the hospital has forgotten the chair through the window, nor Jackson's bloody ramble in the middle of the ambulance lot. Bailey sighs.

"That's just it, I _tried_. _Twice_. He really doesn't want to burden me with his problems."

"I'm sure he thinks you have enough of your own." Maggie shakes her head. "Not that I'm _agreeing_. I'm just saying I know Ben." It's time for a little affectionate criticism. "You've had a lot on your plate lately. You don't have to shoulder all this worry by yourself."

Ever since the case began she's been wondering how Bailey is managing it all. The near-and-dear danger of two little lives that might not see more than five minutes on the surface, right on the heel of one of her worst memories. She wants to ask, but in no time at all she's tongue-tied. How much should she say herself? It's been _too_ easy for her to try help and do the exact opposite. Especially when she doesn't know if she'd be able to handle a lost child. A miscarriage.

_"I only knew Samuel for a few minutes."_

Maybe she'd be even worse off.

"...Well. On a happier note, everyone's still sending _both_ of you get-well letters. Either they found out late or want to make sure you're getting every last ounce of love during recovery. Some of these are from kids whose parents got treatment here." Bailey says, getting up and walking over to her desk, pulling out a veritable deluge of colorful envelopes. Maggie's heart squeezes painfully.

" _Aw_."

Bailey puts a hand on her shoulder as she stuffs them into her purse. Her expression chills the fragile cheer.

"Also, Richard _and_ Catherine are both seriously getting under my skin lately, so...watch out. If the hospital goes up in smoke, you'll know why."

***

"Damn it. Damn it. _Damn it._ "

Jackson has gone to spend the day with Harriet. Halloween and Thanksgiving had been April and Matthew's holidays, and he wants to have some more time with her before he returns to Seattle for Christmas. The apartment is as quiet as she wants it to be, _perfect_ for her epiphanies and breakdowns both. She's summoned a tidal wave to the head. A deluge of old notes, new notes, graphs, charts and scenarios. The tea kettle works overtime to support the craft, spitting out a near-constant plume of steam.

She _pores_ through every last x-ray. Every single email from Parker and Bailey, filling her in on Rose's stats hour-by-hour. Even on her worst days she's kept her folder carefully stocked with excerpts from medical journals and tabs on recent scientific breakthroughs. Her journal is soon filled with just as many sketches as there are notes, carving out the ideal surgery in pencil smudges. Her rechargeable heart keychain remains in her pocket, a good luck charm for a woman who doesn't believe in the concept.

All roads point to failure.

They both bleed out during surgery. One of their livers fails and they can't find a feasible match in time. They're too premature to draw enough breath to grow, much less adapt to rechargeable heart technology. No matter _how_ many times she crossreferences her notes there are two lifeless bodies at the end of the equation. Tea doesn't help. A Rocky scream won't help. She slumps on the porch at three in the morning, shivering beneath the windy night and trying to reconcile with all she knows and loves to give her something. _Anything._

Nothing comes. Nothing but the wind and the truth.

She won't be able to save the twins.

***

_on my way back home. might be delayed because of the weather. if it gets too bad i might dip into a hotel and wait it out. miss you., Jackson, 1:12 p.m._

Winter is officially here, because the weather takes a turn for the dreadful.

What seems like the entirety of Seattle prepares in advance. She's already received emails from apartment management warning of power outages, as well as check-ins from Amelia and Alex. The howling, buffeting winds woke her up an hour earlier than normal, so loud she honestly wondered if the city was about to tip over into the ocean. Maggie tip-toes around the apartment unplugging appliances and digging out Jackson's camping supplies. She aches for him, all over again, and it's more fuel on an already roaring fire.

_it's clearing up a little. going to head out again. i'll keep you updated. lights still on?, Jackson, 2:01 p.m._

Alex asks her if she wants to park their cars in his garage. Meredith asks if she wants to stay at the sisterhouse. She can't answer a single text. It's as if the sky's a clear blue and the storm's all in her head. What if the hospital goes through another disaster, like that storm from a few years back? What if Rose has an even smaller chance of delivering healthy children? One of the surgeons could get hurt. Equipment could _fail_.

_i'll grab some food, if I can. chinese places are closed, so it's either italian or greek, Jackson, 2:07 p.m._

Maggie tugs on her peacoat, then digs around for a scarf. It's down to the wire. She _has_ to do this. There's no other way.

"Got my keys. Got my wallet. Got my bad decision."

The wind is a _wall_ when she walks outside, shoving her to the side the second she steps out from beneath the complex foyer and nearly sending her to the ground. Freezing rain sting her cheeks, another gust whipping her scarf right off her neck and spinning off into the wet dark.

"Oh, _dang it._ " She can't even see where it went. It's as if a gray filter has fallen on the world.

When she approaches the car she feels the automatic tug backwards. Weaker than before, still too strong. Her hands shake when she opens the door, then outright _rattle_ on the steering wheel. Her bones feel like pebbles in a can. Everything feels loose, off. Like she'll fall to pieces at any second, not at all metaphorically, and it's hard to breathe. Maggie gulps down a breath, then another, reaching for her seatbelt and trembling it into place. It takes a few tries before she hears that merciful _click_.

One hard part done. Another hard part to go. She checks the doors, then the locks. Holds the key up, glances it off the slot (damn sweaty palms), then shoves it in and twists.

_I should've parked somewhere else._

She hates this. She hates this. She hates this. Maggie crawls out of the driveway, curves a turn, and heads into the storm.

"It's just a car." She mutters breathlessly, squinting through the sleet. "It's just _driving._ I can make self-charging hearts and perform surgery on a fetus out of the womb."

_The door was crushed in like aluminum._

Hardly anyone else is out, save for a snow plow out early and the occasional working straggler. Her relief is short-lived when a branch longer than she is tall suddenly _snaps_ off a tree and hits the road a few feet in front of her. The urge to swerve nearly sends her to the right, and it's only the wind pushing it out of the way that keeps her moving forward. The rain's coming down in a heavy sleet now. She gets a sudden, manic thought of a long stretch of foggy road. Of Jackson vanishing into the grey.

What a horrible, poetic end that would be: ending up in the same spot that had split them apart, roles reversed in a miserable bookend.

_I thought I wouldn't get out._

A branch scratches the window. Her phone rings. Maggie digs nails into the steering wheel, pulling into the freeway with practiced ease even as her stomach lurches up into her throat. Where is she even going? Where _could_ she go? This isn't the Maggie Pierce she wants anyone to see. Everyone's been helping her so much, with everything, and she just needs to know she can stand on her own two feet again. She doesn't want to shoulder the world, _knows_ deep down it's no way to live, but...

"I'm sorry."

She pulls into the exit. Drives through more wet, straggly road. An hour later she arrives to the winery, a dark shelter nestled within trembling trees.

_maggie, i still haven't heard from you. are you okay? call me, Jackson, 2:37 p.m._

The wind lashes her hair to her face when she steps out, but it's nothing compared to the icy pitch to her stomach when she realizes what the _hell_ she just did.

"I...think I need a drink." She whispers...then sputters when the wind slaps her bangs into her eyes.

It's a shaky, wobbly walk up the winding hill to the front door, the rain caught between dry gusts and abrupt, cold showers. For the second time today she fumbles a key into a lock and drops it, and it's only the promise of warm shelter that keeps her from giving up on _everything._

Her clothes and hair are sopping. She peels her clothes off in the dark, trying to remember where she saw the light switch the first time she arrived. She puts her coat up on the coat hanger, wipes her shoes off on the mat, then walks in proper. The entire place feels like home. There's more wood, velvet and decorations than anywhere she's lived, and yet...it's as if she never left. For several slow, tired minutes she walks in and out of rooms, guided by the rows of light strings curling out of the ceiling. The quaint dining hall. The little tasting area. The storage. Before she leaves she takes with her a bottle of pinot noir and a glass.

She should turn the fire on, but she has no energy. It's all she can do to pull out her phone again. Maggie returns to the lobby, pops open the top and fills her glass up to the brim. She holds it up to the painting above the doorway.

"Cheers."

_maggie, are you okay??? jackson is asking me about you!!!, Sabi, 2:50 p.m._

Her heart knots up. Oh, she's fine. Just a useless, struggling mess, _still_ , even though her neck works and her heart's still technically beating. She watches her little self pad around in the winery, shy and curious and bold, and sputters into her hands. What _was_ this pathetic nonsense?

"Little Maggie. You should be at home reading a book." She chastises into the open air. "...Also, you can't drink, you're underage."

The tiny girl vanishes down the hall, off to find a quiet corner where she can bury her nose in a book and dream. Maggie runs fingers through her hair, hunching onto her knees as the last vestiges of her panic trickle out. There were... _so_ many reasons she'd wanted to be a doctor. The thrill of figuring out the intricacies of the human body, pushing back the mystery to unfold the truth. The prestige. The nobility. Most of all, it's because she'd wanted to _be_ there for people. A real-life superhero, a lab coat in lieu of a cape.

Cheer was a skill as much as resuscitation. Optimism was _hard_ work, and Maggie Pierce was one of the hardest workers out there. She'd been failed by the school system, by society at large and even some of the adults in her life, yes, but she'd also been supported. Pushed down, then pulled back up. Encouraged and loved into the practical genius she is today. As a doctor she had the chance to be the _other_ side of that permanent balance. Lifting up those who've been laid low by circumstance. Embodying a glimmer of hope.

" _I just want her to meet her babies_."

Maggie holds her hair and grits out hot tears. It lasts a while. Longer than what she was used to, and by the end of it all she can think about is how grateful she is to be warm. Her phone goes off again, in-between her mopping the salt off her cheeks, and the number makes her pause. ...Her father is calling. Maggie grinds a hand beneath her wet nose and picks it up, putting it on speaker.

" _Hey, Maggie. Just got back home. Sold a beachhouse by the coast._ "

"Yeah?" She asks, turning and coughing out the raspiness into her shoulder. "What kind of beachhouse?"

" _Cute, quaint thing. One bedroom, one bathroom, very couples getaway-esque._ " He goes quiet for a minute, soft rustles and clicks breaking through the speaker. " _Talk to me, Maggie. I can practically smell when you've had a bad day._ "

Maggie wants to laugh, but she can't. The crying session's wrapped up, but her emotions are a messy slop all over the floor and every mental step she takes is threatening a slip onto her face. She _wants_ to talk about things like a well-adjusted person. About the life she's in and supposed to be enjoying to the fullest, because there were so many people who couldn't lay claim to a fifth of the things and people she's been inundated in. Bill makes a little noise over the phone. That sound he makes when he's feeling fond.

" _I remember Diane telling me...when we found you...how are we going to do this, Bill?_ " She can hear the smile in his voice. " _How are we going to raise the smartest daughter in the world? If I tell her to clean her room she'll probably tell me it's part of her personality, and I won't be able to argue._ "

"She was always intuitive." Maggie manages, her mind's memory conjuring up a cozy dinner with a painful ending. "Sometimes I wondered if there was anything she _couldn't_ predict."

" _That, or she wanted to make sure you wouldn't know anything different. I always figured the smartest people had the best community. I've yet to be proven wrong._ "

There's a nice, long conversation on the horizon. That cozy kind that sets the world straight again. She almost grabs onto it. Instead-

"Why did...why did she cheat on you?" She whispers. "What wasn't _enough?_ "

" _Your mother was always an...honest woman. Too honest, I think. She didn't know how to live life halfway._ "

Always. It's what she taught her, for better or for worse. She wonders if that's where her perfectionism comes from. A little girl of color had no _choice_ but to be twice as good, and even her mother's unconditional love had made her always want to try, try, try as hard as she could. Bill hums softly, the pitch of his voice uneven with the past.

" _I had...to let her go twice._ "

Something whispers at that, a thread of light in the dark. Something true and awful and wonderful, impossible for her to fathom. Maggie nods, shakily, gripping the phone like she'll sink without it.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I wish...I wish none of it had to be like this."

" _It is what it is._ "

The confessions are bubbling up in her. The ones that had trickled out into therapy, started to flood with Bailey.

"Dad, I have a career I love. I have a man who loves me. I have my sisters, my home, my life, yet I still feel like a failure, somehow. What sense does that make? None of you taught me this. Even life has shown me otherwise. Sometimes I just don't _get_ why my brain chooses these conclusions, against all the evidence otherwise."

" _Sometimes everything goes right and doesn't feel like enough. For me, that feeling is when I get so wrapped up in the best thing that I want and the people who deserve it, instead of appreciating the regular, old good in front of me._." He says, sympathy in every hoarse note, and she wishes so, _so_ badly he was here to hug. " _You've always chased perfection, even though you're perfect as you are._ "

That's really it.

"I miss your crockpot soup." She curls her knees to her chest. "That was actual perfection."

Bill chuckles. She's not quite sure over the phone, but he might've been crying, too.

" _...Well. I'll have to come over and make it sometime. I've honestly gotten pretty good at getting the wine ratio right._ "

"Oh, I never told you." She breathes. It doesn't ache quite so hard, saying things like that now. "I have a winery."

Her father stutters like a tea kettle.

" _You're **kidding** me._"

Maggie snaps a quick photo of the main lobby and sends it. She can hear him fumbling with the phone, and the mental image of him tilting it from side-to-side finally stitches a smile onto her face.

" _I knew he was ritzy, but this is...wow. What is it named?_ "

"We're still figuring that out. Jackson's a little impulsive sometimes."

Her father lets out a romantic sigh and talks about an _amazing_ bottle of cabernet franc he tried back in the eighties, with so much flavor it was on the back of his tongue all night long. Maggie sips her glass and stares out the window, the warmth moving up her sternum loosening up her thoughts. The same sensation from before is back, warm as inspiration and vague as a breeze. Her mother...gave up the last moments of her life to be with her. To live _within_ her, through shared wisdom and doted love. Maggie watches the trees thrashing in the wind, a tangled thread in the back of her mind unraveling like string.

To live within her...and _give_ life-

" _ **Maggie?!**_ "

Maggie's breath stops. She whirls around to the lobby's now open doorway, Jackson frozen in a horrified shadow. He's panting _hard_ , as if he ran all the way up the hill. Right where the low lights catch his face she can see his eyes glittering, more here than he's ever been. The contrast between the present and the past couldn't be more disparate, yet she can't help but think back to Jade's surgery. Where he'd materialized in a sea of cameras and shoulders in a dissonant, loving bulwark.

" _Maggie..._ " He rasps, shutting the door behind him. "Maggie, god, what the _hell_..."

Even across the room she can see his gaze shift frantically, from her to the table to the wine glasses, traveling to her (still dripping) coat on the coat hanger and back around as he catches himself up to speed. He has a dusting of snow on his shoulders. His jeans are wet, probably from a wrong step into a puddle. Maggie sets down the phone on the table, takes a breath to speak-

-and he's already crossed the length of the room up to her, tugging her into his arms and squeezing the failed words out.

"I didn't have a _damn_ clue where you were." Jackson snuffles his nose into her hair, breath a hot punch compared to the cold clinging to the rest of him. Maggie's eyes flutter closed, sinking into his chest, nails starting to chill from where they dig into his jacket. " _I drove through half of Seattle asking about you_."

"I'm sorry." She whispers. Oh, he's soaking, too- "I should've said something sooner."

" _Much_ sooner."

He pushes her back, but not away. The man holds her at arm's length, gripping her shoulders and looking her up and down. Assessing for damage, a piece out of place. Dissecting her with those impeccable surgeon eyes of his, never without a detail. Maggie shivers quietly under his scrutiny, still working off the outside chill, and counts the gradual leveling out of his breath. The wisps of white in his hair and spackle in his beard, from snow to the pepper of age. His frustration and fear soften, hitch a little, then _warm_ into a deep, heaving pattern. That helpless kind that overwhelms any words trying to see the surface.

" _I was so worried_."

When he takes her face in both hands and crushes his mouth against hers it's like falling into gold.

Maggie's eyes flutter, the room dimming into nothing but Jackson. His warmth, the still shaky way he breathes through his nose, like the panic still hasn't quite faded away. Her chin scratches against his beard, a hot-then-cold scrape as the leftover snow rubs off between them. His fingers tangle _deep_ in her hair, far from gentle now, his other hand cradling the back of her neck to lick into her mouth, pushing in with a desperation that starts to bruise. When he pulls back, just as quickly, she's a mess for a different reason.

"Anything. _Anything_ , just tell me anything." He repeats, breath a furnace as he licks her off his lips. "Please."

Her head spins a giddy twirl, caught between _finally_ and _please forgive me_. Jackson's forehead is pressed to hers, face still angled as if he'll fall back in at a moment's notice. Just like their little hideaways in Grey-Sloan, where a broom closet or spare changing room became their own world. How things have changed. Maggie reaches up and cradles his face, feels up the stubble dusting his neck.

"I will. Anything. I shouldn't have scared you like that." She kisses him, a quick peck, and presses their heads together again. "I should've just sent a quick text."

He's not pulling away from her touch now. He when she reaches his beard he rubs his face to her palm, still not breaking his gaze.

"What's going _on?_ "

"It's just...a lot."

His eyes are burning, but he doesn't speak. He knows. Jackson leans in, much, _much_ slower this time, to suck in her lip. He gnaws, rolls it between his teeth, then leans up to kiss her cheek. The side of her nose. They're hungry kisses. Grateful ones. The ' _I'm just glad you're here._ ' kind. The last time she tasted anything like this was when she burst into his apartment that weekday night, hard on an overdue apology and determined not to run away from their potential. He makes a little breathy sound into her mouth, halfway between an aborted word and a moan, and... _oh_. Oh, okay. That familiar weak-kneed sensation comes back, Jackson's namesake as much as Avery ever was, and her eyes drift shut-

" _Maggie? Are you still there?_ "

Jackson stiffens. He leans up and slowly looks around. Maggie blinks...then covers her mouth.

"... _Oh, crap._ "

Without letting go of him she reaches over and fumbles for the phone. Her father clears his throat.

" _Should I...call another time?_ "

"Y-Yeah, sure. Sorry about that, this was my fault, I kind of...ran here on a whim and didn't tell anyone. Except you, of course."

" _Ha. Of course. Be well, Maggie, and go easy on yourself tonight._ "

She hangs up, then turns to the man staring her down.

"...Hey."

Jackson huffs. He's still a little angry (scared), but it's softened around the edges now.

"Hey."

They take the rest of the pinot noir, as well as a bottle of merlot, and retreat to the little corner in the lobby, right next to the tall window mostly shuttered by tall, velvet curtains. She can see a glimmer of the weather outside, rustling and knocking about beneath a dimming sky. No snow still, but the chill is ahead of the curve. Jackson can certainly feel it. He turns the little fireplace on low, plucking two of the throw pillows off the sofa so they can curl on the rug side-by-side.

They talk.

"This past month and a half has felt like...flaking away. Little bits and pieces of myself I thought were the most stable thing in the world." She squeezes her phone like a talisman. "I was telling Dad how I felt like a failure because I couldn't bounce back from a traumatic incident like some superhero." She goes still. "...Wait. I forgot to tell him about that."

"Mm." Jackson leans up on his elbow and takes a deep draft, enough to bounce his Adam's apple. Maggie watches it drowsily. "I know that feeling. I think it's worse than if it happens all at once. Like peeling off a band-aid instead of tearing it off." He nudges her with his shoulder. "Also, you should probably tell him about that."

"Can you tell me about it?" She whispers, watching him lick a stray drop from the rim of the glass. When he blinks in confusion she clarifies: "How you're feeling...lately."

She could stand to feel a little less crazy, and life has postponed them long enough. Jackson lays down again, adjusting his head against the pillow. He doesn't speak for a good few minutes, the only sound the faint whistle of the wind outside.

"...I feel like a danger."

He doesn't look at her. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, chest stiff with shallow breaths that clutch at a deep, nurtured pain.

"It's...a _lot_ of flaking. Like...you said." He starts, haltingly, the hand on his stomach starting to squeeze into his shirt. "I've...never killed anyone before." The laugh that follows is dry. He takes another long drink, then reaches for the bottle. "Ha. Just saying it is...so fucked."

She watches him pour an inch, then slide the bottle back onto the table with a cautious slowness that suggests the wine's starting to hit. He settles back against the pillow, touches his side. It's hard to tell in the light, but it looks like he's holding one of the spots he got shot. Maggie reaches over and slides a hand over his knuckles. Jackson grips her, instantly.

"I'm...I _save_ lives. That's what I do. Even now. It's...it's so strange. You see lives taken all the time in movies, in the news, just snuffed out with a bang and a quick cut." He sets down his wine glass to rub at his forehead. "That's crazy enough, but I don't remember it. Not beyond these...quick flashes of light and hitting the ground and yelling. I don't remember thinking, 'yeah, I'm going to beat this man's skull in'. I don't _remember_ one of the scariest days of my life or one of the scariest things I've ever done. It's like my own life happened miles away from me."

Trauma splits the mind from the body. Her car crash felt like it happened to someone else, too. An awful movie that tugged her away from her people, her job. She's pulled back into the moment when Jackson's eyes harden, a sharp flint in the fog.

"Let me make it clear, I don't feel sorry for that _fuck_." He hisses. "He was just another sad sack who thought the rest of the world deserved to pay for whatever the hell he was going through. Sick people, kids, didn't matter. It's just, I didn't...it doesn't line up in my _head_. It took me days to remember who was _in that clinic_ and who wasn't because it seemed like everybody. My mind used to be the most reliable thing about me and now it's fucking not."

Amen to that.

"You're afraid of hurting me." She says, his fearful questions and wide-awake nightmares and clamming up all clicking into place. "Without even knowing it."

Jackson slowly shifts to look at her. The wind has knocked a cloud loose. A stripe of light has fallen through the window, falling in a diagonal strip across his face.

"I could've cut you that night." He whispers, and she wonders how long he's been holding onto that fear, too. "I could go nuts again and get you caught in the middle. I wouldn't even remember it."

"No, Jackson. Don't _do_ that. Don't sell yourself short. You didn't hurt me that night. You _talked_ to me, about everyone's safety, my safety. You were worried about me, scared out of your mind that something was going to happen to us." His gaze starts to wander, stuck on the dread, and she leans into it, trying to hold on. "You didn't hurt Ben, either. You went after the man that tried to turn an entire _clinic_ into another statistic. From what I heard from the interviews, you went straight for him."

Her words are soaking in. She can see the gears turning in his head as he looks just an inch past her, frozen in that thousand-yard stare she's long since accepted as a fact of their shared life. It starts to rain again. The sound drums heavily, suggesting a little ice in the mix. Maggie gently runs nails along his beard, earning a shiver.

"The only time you hurt me is when you _didn't_ ask for the help you needed."

Jackson's mouth twists down, that old misery she never thought could feel so distant front and center again.

"...Yeah." He swallows, then turns and presses his forehead firmly to hers. "I'd rather die than hurt you again."

Maggie nuzzles him. She knows. He's shown her, again and again, and even a _thousand_ car crashes couldn't make her forget. Their conversation gets a little crooked after the refill. Jackson brings up how three Toms have left a huge mark on his life and how he's never going to look at the name the same way again. She tells him that it's completely asinine that her therapist, one of the _sweetest_ women in the world, shares the name of her sister's most hated enemy. She's not sure where little Maggie is right now, but she's, against all odds, finally starting to feel upright again.

"Sometimes I imagine a smaller version of myself just...by my side. Like she's...I don't know...supporting me, but inspiring me, too?" She moves her arm up and down, because her limbs always feel so funny when she's drunk. "Does that make sense?"

"Yeah. A lot. Stephanie once told me she did something similar." She's _long_ since been used to being the odd duck, but something about Jackson's casual acceptance fills her up to the brim. "Our minds are always approximating ways to make sense of this crazy world. I mean, that's a big inspiration behind my game. Glass."

He pauses to sip his drink...then blinks.

"...Who would win in an imaginary fight between our childhood imaginary friends?"

"I already told you, mine would." She waggles a finger in front of his face. "They're really sharp."

"But _mine_ is half-troll." He insists, with a dismissive wave. "Yours would be toothpicks against his iron hide."

Maggie pushes his shoulder. Jackson promptly nudges her back, hard enough to nearly make her roll off her pillow. ...Oh. It's _on._

"Toothpick _this._ "

Maggie lunges and tries to tickle him, reaching around his side for any spot she can reach (and struggling to remember if he's got a ticklish spot or not, she doesn't _think_ he does-). She doesn't really have a plan in mind, other than to win _somehow_ , and drunk as Jackson has become he has no problem outsmarting her. He hunches beneath her, grips at her wrists and tugs her chest-to-chest so he can nibble at her neck.

"No, no, I need to demonstrate the superiority of my surgical friends-" She tries, wriggling and scrunching her cheek to her shoulder when he finds that perfect, awful spot behind her ear.

"Mm, very superior, much resistance." He whispers, in little hissy breaths that tickle even _worse._ Maggie writhes.

" _Oh god no-_ "

Her fuzzy mind doesn't keep up well at this point, but it's...fine. More than fine. She's on his chest, then she's beneath him, boxing her in with his long legs and arms, and there's nowhere else she'd rather be. Her phone buzzes three times before she remembers it exists, Jackson's thigh a dangerous wedge between her legs and rubbing gently.

"Oh, uh, I should probably check that..."

"Nice surrender."

Of course he would. Jackson rolls onto his side with a smug smile, one she is _very_ eager to wipe off his face, but she has a slightly higher priority.

_maggie, don't make me come find you, too. please say something., Sabi, 5:03 p.m._

_I'm so sorry, Sabi. Just a little breakdown. I'm with Jackson right now, we're all right., Maggie, 5:05 p.m._

_a breakdown?? about what?? we definitely need another sleepover, Sabi, 5:06 p.m._

_For sure. Just have to figure out some stuff first. I think this is what healing's supposed to be like., Maggie, 5:06 p.m._

_my poor biracial babies, Sabi, 5:11 p.m._

Maggie drops her heavy arm over her face. Jackson leans over to read her screen, then chuckles.

"Guess that's our new band name." He raises a tired hand and moves it in an arc. "Featuring the Half And Halfs."

A thought seems to strike him. Jackson whips out his phone, then fumbles it and drops it on the carpet. He grumbles, drunkenly, and digs around for it.

"In fact, I should text Ben...I was yelling his ear off on the way here."

Maggie watches him pick up his cell and start texting with one hand. She lays her cheek on his shoulder.

"...How do you do it?"

"Hm?" He hits enter, then scrolls up to dim the light. "Do what?"

"Hold onto people so fearlessly."

Jackson sets the phone down on his stomach. It's a question that spans everything. Too vague and too specific all at once, and she doesn't know how to narrow it down without slipping on the rest of the flood she's been trying to siphon through what feels like a needlepoint. The talk with her father has helped, certainly, and the wine has soothed her down, but she's starting to realize healing will be a little erratic. For however long it needs to be.

"I savor every moment." He says. "Every single last moment, no matter how... _ridiculously_ mundane or frustrating or weird. All of it, because it's all we have."

Maggie stares. ...Sheesh. Jackson is _so_ much wiser than he gives himself credit for.

"When we were on the boat...I thought it was so easy to tell you that...that you're starting a new path, that you're always going to have your amazing history as a doctor to look back on. I was so full of it. Every day I've been here I feel like I'm letting someone down."

"You can't rush healing." He says, too knowingly, and presses in close when she doesn't continue. "Maggie."

She runs a hand down her face, caught between the wine's haze and her own clustered feelings. He takes her wrist and pulls it over to kiss her knuckles.

"You have to let yourself heal or you'll bring everyone down with you." He murmurs against her skin. He nibbles along her pulse, kisses there.

"Oh, I wish I could just _fall_ into work. Plug my nose and pencil dive into it."

"That's a maladaptive coping mechanism." He notes, mildly. "Workaholism."

Oh, but what _good_ were developing coping mechanisms if she couldn't always use them? She can practically feel Penny's chipper energy at that thought. She'd probably tell her that even coping mechanisms need friends.

"It's...just...not looking _good_ , Jackson. I feel like there's a solution, on the tip of my tongue, but something's not breaking through."

Maggie finishes the rest of her wine, their bottle and a half almost empty. It's time to give it a rest. She's probably not going to reach a conclusion tonight, not when she feels hot and heavy and her mind keeps drifting back to how perfectly firm and warm Jackson's chest is. She didn't know it was possible for a man to perfectly embody the first few, peaceful seconds of waking up in the morning, but she was learning something new every day.

"That trip to the pastry shop reminded me of our date." She can feel her words starting to slur. She'll definitely have to bookmark this epiphany. "Up in the, uh...the mountains."

"Yeah...?" He always had a subtle lisp, and it's downright adorable now. "I think that's another one of our things."

"Our pastry thing..." She gestures around her. "...and our wine thing."

She takes his hand and knits their fingers together.

"So, in the middle of my breakdown I thought of a name for one of our wine bottles."

Jackson brushes his knee against hers, sleepily all ears.

"What?"

"Undone."

The man stares at her for a few drowsy seconds. Then he grins, a slow and twinkling arch. Just like he did in the bar on the day she almost ran from what would be one of the best parts of her life.

"I like that."

"What about you? Any ideas?"

He doesn't hesitate.

"Golden Spun."

Maggie blinks. Jackson's gaze has grown soft and distant, eyes roaming the ceiling as if watching an old memory play out.

"I had...a _beautiful_ dream the other day. I don't remember much, but it was...peaceful. Golden. A nice break from the...nightmares." He looks to her, a cautious little glance still softened. "It reminded me of your mother."

Something else flickers in her mind, but alcohol and her very long panic attack keep it from bubbling to the surface. It's hard to be frustrated, though. The sound of this just feels _right_.

"I like it. A lot. Maybe that could be for the red blend." She bonks her knee against his. "Come up with some more, when you have the time. I want us both to name the wine equally."

"Okay..." He muses, a twinkle in his eye. "...but only if you let me name a bottle Frodo."

" _That's-_ " She cackles and kicks her feet, nearly knocking over her wine. "That's copyright infringement!"

Jackson grins and tosses his head back, shaking one hand.

"No, no, no, wait, what if I put an accent mark? Like...Fro-deau." He crinkles his nose in some exaggerated French affect. " _Eau Du Mordor_."

"I'm done with you. I'm finished." He chooses now to lean in for a kiss, of course, and she tries and fails to push him off. Jackson snuffles into her shirt collar like a puppy. "You're _awful_."

His nose is ice, but everything else is warm honey. Maggie leans her head back, losing herself to the drunken spin and the comfortable weight of him half on her chest. She feels Jackson lick his lips, right before kissing a wet stamp into the hollow of her throat.

"And you're beautiful."

Another inch of wine later and they're almost comatose. They have to call a taxi. It's not easy to put on her jacket while Jackson paws at her breast, but then again, she's not making it easy on him, either. Their ride arrives a little late thanks to the rain, and even when they step outside all she can feel is a warm party. Jackson makes a sleepy joke about his former chauffeur she laughs too hard at and nearly falls over in her attempt to get in the back seat.

"Both of our cars are here and we can't drive _either_ of them." She sputters, having no idea _why_ this fact is so funny, yet knowing deep in her soul it's the funniest thing in the world. "We need to invent teleportation."

"You shouldn't have driven either of them." Jackson rebukes, wagging a finger in front of her nose in a perfect imitation of her. She takes it and kisses it. "I'm gonna have to hide them now. In a giant hole."

"That's fine. I'm grood on driving for a while." She snickers messily into his chest. " _Very grood_."

She thinks the taxi driver is a little annoyed with them, but it could also just be the weather, and who cares? She has her life. Her career, despite all the hurdles. Her boyfriend (currently howling at another bad joke with his hands over his face). Her father, her family, her community. Everything is going to be okay. Maybe not _okay_ okay, but...okay. A thin layer of snow has built up, free from the rain. It's an ordeal and a half walking up the slick steps, both of them having to cling to the handrail because their personal gravity has been sabotaged by red wine.

"Why's your..." Jackson leans down and plucks something off the mat. "...scarf. Why's your scarf here. That's what I was going to say."

" _My scarf._ " She clutches it to her chest. "I love our neighbors."

A brief note of alarm blares in her head when she tries to turn on the lamp and gets nothing, until she remembers she unplugged everything. Jackson flicks on the kitchen light and ducks his head under the sink for a gulp of water. He's weird when he's drunk. Her walk to their bedroom is the shortest walk in the world, and she's glad, because she's _bushed_.

"Not going to class tomorrow. Mm-mm." Jackson sighs behind her. She knows her beloved clean freak is tired when he just slumps onto the bed in his damp jacket and shoes. " 'm staying in and sleeping in."

"I like that idea." She reaches over to tug at one of them, then remembers shoelaces and gives up. "You're a genius."

"Mm. 's one of my..." He yawns, so wide and slow his jaw cracks. "...best."

Oop. That's right. Future epiphany. Maggie leans to the bedside table for her notepad. She writes down a slew of scribbles she hopes will still make coherent sense in the morning, Jackson muttering drunken nonsense under his breath to her left as he struggles to properly take off his boots. Maggie checks her clothes (she doesn't remember taking them off, she's definitely drunk-), then slides into bed and wriggles into his open arms.

"Can we have sex soon?"

"Yeah. Definitely. But only if you promise not to scare me like that again."

"I promise."

"Okay. We also need to pick up the, uh..." He blows out a sloppy sigh into her hair, and for a second it seems like he forgot the last word of his sentence. "...cars."

"Mm-hmm." Everything's already fading. "We also forgot the lights. Turn off the lights. That."

The room sinks into silky darkness, and she's not sure if it's because her eyes are closed or because her face is smushed in Jackson's chest.

"Mmkay."

***

She wakes up with a _raging_ headache. For a horrible second she thinks her concussion has come back in full force.

Taking off her headwrap is a very temporary relief, the normal joy that comes with shaking out her hair accompanied by what feels like crazed cats bouncing in a cardboard box. How much wine did she _drink?_ She shuffles to the kitchen and splashes cold water onto her face (doesn't help), then rinses her mouth out (definitely helps). Jackson is in the kitchen in a dark t-shirt and sweatpants, Alexa crooning R&B in the corner. Maggie barely makes it to the kitchen table before her head is pounding for mercy.

"Already working on the coffee." Jackson says, tapping the milk carafe on the counter, then giving it a swirl. "Two shots or three?"

" _Three_." She moans, slumping down and rubbing her temples. "Preferably in the form of a cappuccino."

"On it."

He's made a simple, salty breakfast of eggs, bacon and hashbrowns, which even her flip-floppy stomach manages to rumble at. She nibbles at a very toasty edge as he settles next to her, situating their coffees side-by-side: fluffy cappuccino for her, dark Americano for him.

"Got the cars back earlier this morning." He says around a mouthful, scratching at his ankle with his foot. "Alex wasn't thrilled about it, but I paid him in wine."

"That's pretty fair. We do get the good stuff." She says. Then it hits her. " _Wait_. How did you know I'd be at the winery?"

"You weren't at home or the sisterhouse." He glances sidelong at her. "Also, you drink when stressed."

That's fair. Slowly, but surely their conversation last night sinks in, between licking at the froth and drinking in the brew. Jackson watches her with his chin in his hand, eyes low-lidded with leftover sleepiness. He trimmed his hair. It's almost as short as it was back during Grey-Sloan, but not quite. His beard's just as thick as ever, his new favorite thing, and by default hers, too. It's a magical thing, knowing a person so intimately and for so long, yet seeing them anew. Maggie peers over her cup.

"Hey."

Jackson's mouth curves with a slow smile.

"...Hey."

* * *

_Every flower needs time to bloom. Don't give up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes, I _did_ take inspiration from the storm I went through as story fodder. Life is art!
> 
> I _really_ enjoyed writing this one. It's longer and more rambly than I wanted, but hell if I didn't need some extra _everything_. Sometimes you need some short and sweet, other times you need a smorgasboard.
> 
> Also, peep the chapter count. Pacing has dictated I pad things out just a bit more to keep things feeling smooth and complete. Hope you're ready for some _seriously_ bespoke feels, because we're entering the final stretch.


	9. sink into flight

**Song Inspiration:** "Guidance" by Yeah Boy x Ryan Keen

*

_it's gone way too far_

_and now I'm losing my sleep_

_and in all this silence_

_i really need some guidance_

* * *

_Legacy._

_It's what we leave behind when our body returns to dust and our soul connects with the clouds. The ripple effect of our action, and inaction, in the world's vast, saturated network. Who we loved. Who we hurt. What we wanted, and never got. What we needed, and were lucky enough to touch. All that never happened and could still manifest years down the line...if you believe in reincarnation, that is. It can be devastating, just how much goes into us, and the urge to retreat into distraction and deflection is an ever-tempting demon. Your legacy isn't something to fear. It's you, and all you could be, well after you've passed._

_What will you leave behind?_

* * *

" _We need a vacation soon. Somewhere sunny._ "

"And have you go stir-crazy while we're beefing up our tan?"

" _I'll just do test on the seashells._ "

Jackson slaps a hand over his eyes. He's not sure what makes him laugh more: the Mass Effect quote or the image of Maggie in a bikini using a stick in the sand to scrawl elaborate diagrams on the weight, contents and status of sand dollars. He leans back in his chair, nudging aside his clay tools so he can better prop up his feet. The afternoon moves slowly over the desk, gold as honey, and the faint flutter in the light shaft suggests another dusting day is coming up soon. His stomach rumbles for its late lunch, eager for him to get back to his laidback day, but he won't budge until he gets a response to his next question.

"Well. Until that happens..." He arches his neck in a stretch, not stopping until it pops properly. "...how's therapy coming along?"

" _It's good. Really good, though it's starting to feel kind of...flat? Penny says it's because we're nearing the end and the reason it starts to feel a little dull is because we've burned through all the dramatic parts._ "

"Oh, yeah. I went through the same thing. Last few sessions were kind of anti-climactic, though in a good way." He indulges in an affectionate thought of Barnes, Darla and the ward at large. "How's the medical study?"

The line goes quiet. He expected as much, but it doesn't stop him from abruptly and _fiercely_ looking forward to end of this life hurdle. It's a strange bundle of emotions he has on the matter. The former surgeon in him can appreciate the _unique_ difficulty of the case, but the parent in him wants nothing to do with it whatsoever. He knows Maggie is inching through this conflict herself, the phone clicking with a sound that suggests she keeps opening and shutting her mouth.

" _I...I've been coming to conclusions...not ones I like, but...they might be the only option._ " She lets out a long sigh and goes quiet for another minute. Probably getting lost in a theory. " _...I can't get more specific than that, but I'm doing my best._ "

Jackson closes his eyes, tilting his head a little and imagining her at his side where his cheek can touch.

"...I know you are. Just know I'll be here. No matter what happens."

He can feel her fond smile as surely as if it were pressed into his shoulder.

" _I know you will_."

***

He's nearing the homestretch.

His demo is done. Actually, honest-to-God _finished_. Painstaking hours both at campus and at home (despite his best attempts to keep school and home separate) have whittled his game into a finely tuned machine. His graphic design elective has translated nicely into the art direction, though he isn't _too_ proud to ask for assistance from a few of the department's undergraduates (paid, of course). It's a visual abstraction of what he's seen when his mind has popped loose a few screws. Bright color and bold silhouettes, with a carefully designed interface to vacillate between legible and illegible, accordingly.

From the patient point-of-view the doctors are carved out in glass, shattering when sanity is lost. From the doctor's point-of-view everything is soft, malleable clay. His favorite detail is the victory screen for both patient and doctor playthroughs: a wash of gold and a rush of gentle music. It just feels right.

Sound design. Animation. Scripting. Physics. Multiple-choice dialogue strings. So many things he didn't think he'd do, but he has and _damn_ well. There's a still a little time to mull over his quiet victories in the end of the quarter, his assignments little more than review sprinkled with group critique. His VR teacher has already taken him aside for an apology concerning the meeting with Thom, with enough heat behind it to suggest it's not just professional courtesy. It's a nice sentiment, though unneeded. He's already put the situation behind him. Why wouldn't he?

After all, he's _also_ found a game developer for his medical VR demo.

His schedule doesn't need more jam-packed into it. He knows this, yes, but the prospect of doing some digging into local indie studios in and around Washington was much too tantalizing to pass up. It first started as cursory glancing online late at night, once Maggie was dozing off in bed and he was in the middle of brushing his teeth. Then three hours had passed and he had a list of names and titles in a document. Maggie had woken up at an odd hour, a little surprised to see him still up until he shared with her why. Then her face glowed in a pitch brighter than his phone light.

One of his classmates cracks open the world's loudest can of soda (it doesn't make his skin crawl like it used to, he still doesn't like it-). Jackson checks his phone to see if Ben responded to his last text (still no), then leans back in his chair and observes his title screen. The only thing left is to present the final version to the class, the same one he's shown off to his studio-to-be over Zoom. A familiar squeak-and-scroll runs through his thoughts, followed by a baseball cap and an expression of awe.

"Aw, that's looking so _good_ , man." Thompson is grinning from ear-to-ear. "Just the title screen alone..."

"Thanks." Jackson leans back so he can see better. "It's pretty much done. Might do a few more playthroughs to see if I can catch any leftover bugs, but it's straightforward enough I seriously doubt it."

"I could help with that." He lifts up his cap, squinting. "Who'd you get for the animation?"

Jackson takes a second to enjoy the impassioned kick-up of his pulse, affecting his most casual lean into the seat and gesturing to the screen.

"Well. I did a little motion-capture in the lab, interspersed with a few stock choices sprinkled in. Just couldn't quite get the animations how I liked them. Didn't want to rely _overmuch_ on it, but this...kind of feeds the purpose. I'm drawing inspiration from me, my work, so what better way than to literally put me _into_ my work."

"Yeah. Yeah, I see the vision. It looks good." Thompson pauses, then tilts his head. "Is...their hair supposed to look like that?"

Jackson freezes, then follows his gaze to where one of the background doctor's hair is clipping through his mask. ...Crap.

They spend an extra hour after class bug-testing. It's nearly as relaxing as practicing his stitchwork at Grey-Sloan during his residency. Thompson, with just a little egging, shows the reworked notes for his presentation. His game's hit a few snags over the past few weeks, mainly in completely revamping his core concept, but it's a challenge he's met head-on. Jackson studies his concept art, flicking his gaze back-and-forth between the game. It's a curious sci-fi piece: an anti-anxiety game that has the player balance on a tightrope in the stars.

"I mean it, Thompson." He leans up from the screen. "You've got a future in this. You've got so many great ideas, not to mention you're like a constant set of fresh eyes."

Thompson huffs, twisting the end of one of his locs.

"Nice word, 'future."

"More than a word." Jackson starts his game over from the beginning. Patient run this time. "I've been looking at local game studios and production houses. Going to try and get this off the ground."

Thompson watches him out of the corner of his eye as the intro begins, his grip on the VR headphones tightening a little.

He thinks of all the people he wants to show on the way home. On his way inside the apartment, as he finishes making a snack, all while cleaning up the place for when Maggie comes back from the sisterhouse. What they'd say once they saw the finished version in all its meticulous, spotless glory. Bailey would be one of the first to want to play, raising her hand as high as it could go in a sea of tall people. Richard would be content to watch a few rounds, then sidle in to show everyone how it's 'really done'. Parker would definitely appreciate the changes in perspective, with his own experience in PTSD's grip.

Jackson's heart kicks up into a patter, that familiar itch of inspiration crawling up his arms and making it hard to focus on his sandwich. Oh, he can't _wait_ to show him. He can't _wait_.

How many lives could he save with this? How many patients will have their more subtle symptoms recognized faster, diagnosed more accurately? How many budding surgeons and nurses will have their empathy cranked up to full volume, placed in the shoes of both ends of the table? He's not even finished with the first game and he's already cooking up ideas for the second and the third. Virtual reality medical games for pediatrics and children with learning or speaking disabilities. For deaf and hard-of-hearing patients, perhaps with sign language part of the gameplay. Maggie already knew ASL, so she could give him a few pointers there.

Games based on spotting variants in spike proteins to whittle down new viruses faster. Games based on plastic surgery that improve a player's sense of detail while, literally and figuratively, slicing through the misogyny and ageism inherent in the industry. It's a whirlwind of potential that doesn't come with an addendum. There's no existential dread of too many hours and not enough recovery. It's hard not to feel ashamed sometimes, needing all this space and grace, but...he _deserves_ it. It's hard to say, even now, but he deserves it.

Jackson leans back against the kitchen walls and closes his eyes, imagining a full room bustling with familiar faces. It's just one person who won't be there. One that used to be the first one he'd try to please, before anyone else so much as stamped a silhouette in his memory.

Right on cue, his jaw itches and his appetite wavers. Jackson sets his food on the counter, counting out his breaths. His therapist recently recommended talking it out. Not just with someone else, but...with himself. Talking aloud was good for the mind and spirit -- it was actually a much more common habit than people liked to admit -- and it was one he never tried. Even airing his aches out to his lonesome was more vulnerability than he was taught, and, well...that was precisely the problem.

So he tries it.

"Mom."

Jackson rotates in the kitchen in a slow circle, not settling until his gaze settles into place with the image in his mind. ...She'd be sitting down by the living room window. Legs crossed, back slightly arched. It's how she did everything: picture-perfect. He'd be standing, far and away from it and her, because he's done with it. He clears his throat, just like he used to before a speech. He lets the emotions rise to his face...just like he never did.

"...Do you remember what you told me when I was a kid?"

Cut grass and a sunny day, moving like dust through a light shaft.

"About legacy?"

***

It's been a while since he's been to the Bailey household.

The thought curls around his mind as he drives, as gentle as it is chiding, and he has to slice it in parts to circumvent the guilt. If Grey-Sloan was a second home, theirs was a third, eternally inviting with familiar people and food that makes his mouth water. He'd retreated there during his divorce, when April had switched her negligence for obsessive entitlement, then _again_ when he couldn't face another nightmare-filled night alone. It's been months since he's been to the Baileys', swept up in his school-and-home life, and he misses it with a veracity that tugs like a branch on a shirt.

His mind continues to wander when he detours for gas, then again to drop off a few wine bottles at the sisterhouse (Amelia is short on her 'post-pregnancy alcohol make-up stash'). Last time he drove this long was...

_"Maggie. Maggie Pierce. She's my girlfriend. She's not answering her phone, I just need to know if anyone might've seen her...this is what she looks like, and this is a photo of the car-"_

_They look at her picture and shake their heads and mutter condolences, another fucking dead end in a sea full of them. It's all he can do to keep from driving his fist through the wall. God. God! The ones that recognize Seattle's resident genius haven't seen her and the ones that don't **also** haven't seen her. He can't muster up so much as a tight smile when he rushes back out of the building and to the car, shoving in the key with a violently shaking hand. This isn't how it ends. This can't be. It wouldn't **fit.**_

_He keeps the phone in his pocket, because he knows he won't stop looking at it otherwise and that's a one-way ticket to ensuring he's the missing person of the day. Cold, bitter thoughts cut through the heat scouring his chest as he rounds turn after turn after turn. ...What if someone took her? Hurt her? He'd been terrified at the potential of his own two hands since that fateful day at the clinic, but now he feels no such compulsion. If someone so much as bent a single curl on her head he'd snap their neck in a thousand places. He wouldn't even care if his prestige couldn't keep him out of jail. It'd be worth it. It'd be worth it._

_His grip on the steering wheel hurts, distantly, and he can hardly breathe around the blockage in his throat for all the horror stories he wants to bite._

Jackson pulls up by the curb, just outside their driveway, and parallel parks between what looks like Rosalind's sedan and another car he doesn't recognize. He sends a quick thank-you to God, because a _thousand_ other things could've happened that night.

The sidewalks in their neighborhood are as nicely paved as ever, with the _particularly_ clean lawns suggesting some children getting early Christmas chore money. Their light strings are already up and framing the roof, with just the pillars unfinished. The door's unlocked, though no chorus of voices greets him. The boys are out with their aunt on a shopping trip, though they'll be home before the end of the day. Jackson spots a note on the counter as he shrugs off his jacket, his name written in swirling cursive. Despite all the years he's known Ben he's only met Rosalind a few times, but he could recognize her handwriting a mile away.

_Hey, Jackson. Ben told me you were swinging by earlier. Figured it was a while since you had Bailey's classic pie, so I did my best to copy the recipe last night when I had some free time. Let me know how I did. -- Rosalind_

Well, damn. Looks like he'll have to ask what _her_ favorite wine and cheese combo is so he can thank her properly. Jackson rubs his hands together with barely constrained glee, stomach rumbling encouragement as he plucks a plate out of the cupboards and gets to work. The pie crust is crisp and sweet, the insides a gooey goodness that make his eyes flutter closed. _Phew._ It's a little less cinnamon than Bailey uses, but he was not complaining. So much for a diet.

The kitchen slowly reveals all that he's missed as he strolls through. There are a few new photos of the boys at soccer games on the wall, with one at what looks like a recent trip to the Space Needle. The wine bottles he gave Ben earlier are lined-up by the window, all used up. Jackson nibbles flaky crust off his fork, trying to source the uneasiness in his stomach at the sight. ...It wasn't all _that_ long ago he asked for a little alcohol to soothe his nerves, right? Not even a month. Then again, Bailey might've had some. Then _again_ , Ben was a social drinking man, and his social circle has been busier than usual.

_Ah._ Right. Jackson hastily scrubs off his plate and fork, then puts them away and heads to the back door.

There are Christmas lights glowing on the deck and wrapping around the fence, popping color into the pale surroundings of early winter. Ben is hammering away in the middle of the yard. He's bundled up in a jacket, gloves and boots, slamming away at what looks like a half-finished dog kennel. He doesn't say anything, but to be fair, it wouldn't be the first time someone didn't hear him walk up. According to Maggie his unconscious superpower is treading as lightly as a rabbit despite being 'as tall as a troll'.

"Hey, man." Jackson steps up to his side, angling his head carefully so he doesn't trip on any tools. "Getting a pet?"

Ben rolls his shoulders, eyes fixed firmly on his work.

"Boys been begging and begging for a puppy." He mutters. Judging by the dusting of snow in his hair he's been out a while. "I'm not going to win _this_ war."

"Oh, yeah." Jackson chuckles, rubbing at his beard. "Harriet keeps asking for a rabbit. Only reason I haven't gotten her one yet is because she asked for a kitten the week prior."

"Ha."

The man's laugh cracks like old wood. Jackson frowns and takes another step forward, the uneasiness in his stomach returning for round two.

"Christmas lights are looking good." He adds. Ben nods.

"Thanks."

It's not immediately apparent with his dark skin, the puffiness around his eyes only showing when he tilts his head to wipe at the sweat on his brow. ...It's not that he didn't have a clue about this. They haven't seen each other in person much lately, for reasons that scrawled themselves in blood, and he's having to bridge the intermittent text messages and long silences with abrupt swiftness.

"Hey. You all right...?" Jackson starts, carefully. Ben sniffs and leans his head down to check the bottom of the kennel.

"Oh, yeah. Fine. Allergies."

Jackson frowns. ...Seriously? He leans down into a crouch, folding arms on his legs.

"I've known you for years. If there's anything you've never gotten, it's seasonal allergies-" He starts-

Ben crushes his eyes shut.

" _Just..._ let me _have_ this, Jackson."

Jackson blinks. Ben goes silent in the hard, stiff way that reminds him of bad days where nothing could puncture, working away at a stubborn nail until it's little more than a coarse spot in the wood. With a grunt Jackson leans back up into a standing position, pushing his hands into his pockets and looking off into the yard. It's a mess compared to the tidyness of the front yard, the hoop still out and covered in frost. According to one of the balls in the corner the boys got done with a recent soccer session.

"I'm sorry." Ben whispers, almost as suddenly. His back remains turned to him, a block of blue against the white. "I'm...not having a good day. I should've called this off."

Jackson shifts from foot-to-foot.

"Do you...want me to call today off?"

"No, no. It's...I..."

He stutters on the words, trying to find the perfect thing to say, then falls into his natural, characteristic honesty. Ben leans low on the crate and lets out a long, whooshing breath.

"...I'm never like this." He laughs, huskily, and shakes his head. "God, I'm _never_ like this."

That fresh, old guilt pulls out of the ground like the undead, still twitching despite his best attempts to silence it ever since that wretched day landed on their doorstep. Jackson aches to reach out and rub his back, squeeze his shoulder, _something_. He doesn't. He and Ben were never the kind of men to recoil from touch. It was human nature to crave a warm hand or gentle hug. What stops him is the knowledge that trauma can make tenderness frightening and the familiar strange. God, he already knows it. He just wishes _he_ didn't have to.

Ben looks up, still not at him, breath coming out heavy and slow.

"How long has it been? Three months now?"

"Three and a half."

"God, it feels like a _year_."

Longer and shorter than that, for him. Ben tosses the hammer to one side, plopping noiselessly into the frost. A stiff breeze pushes at them both, but Jackson doesn't budge. He watches his friend grimace and shake like he doesn't remember which way is up or down. He keeps gripping and flexing his hands, and for a second he wonders just how long he's been out here trying to hammer his sanity back in place.

"How do you _do_ it, man? All of it? Sleeping was never this hard. My appetite's bullshit. I said to myself, 'hey, it was just another bad day'. Just like a long shift at the fire department or a hard case at Grey-Sloan. That tactic hasn't worked, as you can plainly see." He tries to supplement that last line with one of his classic crooked smiles, but it doesn't stick, and his head is drooping again. "...I'm not myself lately, at all. Haven't been. I haven't...Miranda's noticed. I know she has."

The guilt swings right back, twice as strong and in the shape of Maggie's warm smile. Jackson chews on his bottom lip, starting to chap from the cold.

"...You need to get some help, Ben. Professional help." He says. "You can't shoulder all this on your own."

Ben leans his arms over the kennel and clasps his hands together.

"I don't...it's not that I don't _want_ to. I just need to be around for the kids. For Bailey. I don't want to dump any of this on Rosalind, she's been doing so much as it is. Especially after I..." He lets out a tight breath and rubs at his face with his sleeve. "...almost kept her away from her own family in the _first_ place. Wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be...fair."

No. Absolutely not. Fuck it. Jackson reaches down to take his shoulder, as gently as he'd try to catch a snowflake.

"Don't be like me, Ben. Don't wait for it to get so bad you confuse your loved ones for enemies and life for death." His voice shakes down to a whisper. " _Please._ "

Ben shrugs him off, an action that stings even though he _gets_ it. He shakes his head, hard, and holds out his hands like he's trying to throttle things back in place.

"I have _things_ to do-"

"You have _healing_ to do."

Ben scoffs, humorlessly. Jackson chews down the frustration. Of course the concept doesn't click with a man who was at his best when propping someone else up. Reminds him of himself, really, if the selflessness was less tainted with bone-deep insecurity.

"Healing isn't just for everyone else, you know." Jackson says, dryly. When the man keeps glaring off into space he adds, "Ben, look at me."

The man grits his teeth.

"Jackson, I'm fine. It's not you-"

"Oh, clearly it has something to do with me, because I've been in this frozen yard for twenty minutes and you haven't looked at me once. Did I do something?" When he still doesn't speak he tries to step into his line of sight. " _Ben-_ "

Ben lurches to his feet.

" _I'm not used to seeing you alive, okay?!_ "

Jackson balks, waving one arm to keep himself from stumbling back. ... _What?_ His friend is panting hard, hands clenched into shaking fists with an awful spark in his eyes he's never seen before.

"It's...it's _weird_ , okay, you're going to think I'm crazy..." He stops himself, crushing his eyes shut and holding out a hand. "...okay, maybe not crazy, but _I_ feel crazy, because seeing you in person freaks me out a little. That's why I haven't been visiting often, or...inviting you over or letting our kids see each other. I'm sorry." He starts to pace, nervously. "I...I keep seeing you bleeding out on that ground. Trying to breathe, asking me where the hell you are. Messes me up."

The sting of antiseptic and gun smoke. A roll of paper towels catching on a sticky smudge. Jackson swallows it back, focusing on the way Ben's voice quivers.

"You keep feeling guilty for taking me there..." He drags a hand down his face. "...did you ever think I felt awful for not getting you _out_ of there quicker?"

Jackson bites his lip. No. No, he really didn't. He didn't blame Ben for a single damn thing, because he was too busy blaming himself for _everything_. Maggie had already called him out on it, even as she was blaming herself for a car accident only a clairvoyant could see.

"I just...want to break things. Anything to make me stop feeling like this." Ben laughs and holds his arms out. "I don't _break_ things. I fix things. Save people." His arms slap back down to his sides helplessly, staring at the ground. "I mean...I did."

_I'm a doctor. I'm a good father. I'm not a failure._ The same thoughts that ricocheted in his head when he was being wheeled into Grey-Sloan coughing on his own blood. Their realities, and everything they knew to be constant, was whipped out from beneath them.

"...Yeah." Jackson whispers. "Yeah. You're right. I've just been blaming myself. Even though Maggie keeps telling me it's asinine." He feels heat pricking his own eyes at the soggy misery in front of him. "...I don't really remember much of it. Including killing the guy. Still trying to figure out if that's a good or bad thing. Might just be both."

Ben's fugue cracks. He finally looks at him head-on, steady with quiet horror.

" _I'm so sorry_."

Aren't they all? Jackson watches as Ben tries and fails to swallow it back, eyes glistening with a long pain he's been familiar with for years.

"Told Joey the other day...it's okay to cry." He finally lets out a sob, softened with a laugh. "I'm a hypocrite."

Aren't they all. Jackson wordlessly holds out one hand. Ben doesn't pull away or lash out. He walks up and pulls him into an iron tight hug.

" _I love you, man_."

Jackson lets out a shaky breath, clutching him back.

"I love you, too. I'm so glad you're still here."

They stand there like that awhile. All the incredible advances in human art and technology and, still, it's a moment with someone he cares for that makes him feel bigger than himself. Ben is the first to pull away, sluggishly, as if half-asleep, and head to the house. Jackson follows. The guy's a man of movement, after all, and he's just here to make sure he's moving in the right direction.

They go into the living room, while the house is still quiet enough for attempts at sanity, and pull out the rest of Rosalind's pie. Ben dices them a plate (doing his best to still be the host), then starts up a fire in the fireplace. Jackson tugs off his shoes and curls up on the sofa, stretching out his legs to get comfortable. Ben situates himself on the recliner to his right. It's in the quiet minutes that the rest of the overdue tears leak out of his friend, leaking into his pie slice.

"...This is really good." Ben mumbles, thickly, once he's worked halfway through his plate. "Rosalind's got the touch."

"Seriously. She should open up a bakery." Jackson stiffens with the realization. " _Wait_. Maybe I could commission some of these for the winery..."

That'd be one hell of a local menagerie. To think, he'd used to think 'local' was trendy guff to make businesses stand out, but now he sees it for the community connection it is. Ben clears his throat, talking around a bite.

"So, uh...you and Maggie good now?" He licks whipped cream off his knuckle. "I figured her vanishing like that would've warranted a few talks..."

"Oh, yeah." Jackson pokes at his empty plate, internally debating the merit of a third slice. "Scared me _shitless_ , but yeah. Just another meltdown. Second verse, same as the first."

"Ha."

They drift into silence again. A log from the fire tumbles into the weakened foundation with a pop of orange. Jackson folds hands over his full stomach, closes his eyes and enjoys the warm lull that follows. It might be age or his newly accepted ill brain that has him regularly wanting to nap out of nowhere, but he doesn't fight it like he used to. Ben has already kicked the recliner back himself, looking as worn as he's ever seen him as he finishes his plate.

"You need a little more stress relief in your day-to-day." Jackson mutters. "Camping works."

"Mm. Yeah. I could use a camping trip." Ben agrees, easily. "Could use a change of scenery aside from work and the backyard and more work."

"I also highly recommend pegging."

Ben blinks, then _hacks_ on his bite of food, and Jackson very nearly regrets his (kind of) joke until he hears the man suck in a breath.

" _Wait, hold up-_ "

Jackson snickers and holds up a hand.

"I'm just saying. It works like a charm."

Ben wipes at his mouth and sits up, considering.

"Would Miranda even..." He starts, then pauses. Jackson watches his eyebrows raise, then furrow, then raise again. His mouth purses, then relaxes. "...You know, I'll...get back to you on that."

They both succumb to an early evening nap by the fire. Bailey and Rosalind come home with the boys in tow an hour and a half later, arms filled with bags and boxes. His former chief glances between them, lightning quick, and he knows she's wondering if he got through to her stubborn husband. Jackson helps them unload and organize (chiding William and Joey when they run off prematurely to turn on their Switch).

"Good to see you, Jackson." Bailey hugs him tightly (for the second time ever) and beams up at him. "Did you try Rosalind's pie?"

"I tried, I loved, I had seconds." Jackson laughs. "Don't ask me to pick favorites, I won't do it."

"It's just as well." She gives his shoulder a pat. "You'd get both pies, anyway."

It's a good evening. Jackson plays a few rounds of Mario Party with the kids, Ben curled next to Bailey while she cheers them on. He's a little burnt out after the conversation in the yard, though, and retires early to lounge on the couch by the fireplace and catch up. He asks Rosalind for some handwriting tips, because he doesn't want to enjoy good cursive for his signature only. Ben nods off all the while, face the most relaxed he's seen since he visited today.

The evening goes by too fast and wonderfully slow, and he hopes Ben knows uneven time isn't always a bad thing.

***

"We should take a night for ourselves. Forget about the world a bit."

Jackson looks up from the sink.

"Yeah...?"

Maggie has a physical language. For all that she thought of herself as a goofy underdog, she was more adept at flirting than she gave herself credit for. A loose smile spreads on his face when she eases into his space and pets his hip, tilting her head back and to the side in that lovely little way.

"We've both been a little stressed..." She bobs her head when he raises his eyebrows. "... _really_ stressed, and we need to unwind regularly."

It's a careful cheer she maintains. Not an insincere one -- he can spot that a mile away -- but a cautious one. He knows the kind. Where any joy whatsoever is carefully guarded and milked for all it's worth, because the alternative is always a looming potential.

"You've gotten pretty good at this whole healthy life balance thing." He says, kissing her cheek as best he can with his hands still in the soapy water. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"Penny's been teaching me to fight what I can change and what I can't. It's just hard to tell the difference sometimes." She holds his waist, looking down at the suds. "I'm worried about my patient. More than I want to be, and yet, I can't stress out _too_ much about it or I'll just fall into a spiral that helps nobody."

It's a roundabout way of saying her patient is really not doing well. Small wonder. Pregnancy was an inherently traumatic experience to the body. Twins with a unique condition and precarious health was the final straw. Jackson rinses off the last few plates, letting Maggie work through her thoughts with supportive silence.

"So, um...I'm not going to get discharged in time for the surgery." She says, softly. "I'm...trying not to feel like a failure about it."

Jackson closes his eyes, just for a second ...Shit. He switches off the water, wipes his hands off, then turns around and pulls her close.

"I'm sorry."

Maggie presses her face to his neck.

"...Yeah. Me, too."

Jackson lets her take the lead. He waits as Maggie settles more comfortably in his arms, a soft and perfect fit he can't imagine life without. He waits for her breathing to slow and one of her hands to start petting the back of his neck, how she does when they fall asleep in a tangle. He breathes in her warm skin, moves up to her earlobe to take between his teeth and suckle. The sound of her breath tight through her nose is pure music.

"Forgetting about the world sounds nice. Charcuterie and a movie?" Jackson lets go of her ear to press his forehead to her hair, just to feel it squish. "Or a trip to the spa?"

"We could do those." Her voice is throaty, fingers toying with his shirt collar. "I'm thinking...we could eat afterwards."

Jackson slowly grins. ... _Ah_. He knows what she's suggesting. His mind is coming up with flirt number one and flirt number two when she leans back a little, to look at him proper, and his breath hitches in his throat. Maggie's been looking at him in this... _way_ , lately. He can't quite put his finger on it, for all that he studies her like a classical painting, and it makes his stomach twist up in another way he can't describe.

"Yeah. Okay." He says, eventually, when his thoughts catch up to his head. Maggie hunches her shoulders a little, smiling.

"...What?"

"...You."

Time slows when she takes his face in both hands and cradles him. Every time. It _does_ that to him, every time. Jackson leans in and kisses her, fiercely. Maggie sinks against him with a sigh.

"Bedroom?" Is all he can manage, when he comes up for air. Maggie tugs him close again.

"Bedroom."

He's already ready, and he lets her know by reaching around and kneading at her ass, enjoying the little sounds she makes against his mouth. She returns the sentiment, all too familiar with every inch after their past few go-arounds. A knock on the door jolts them back to reality like a slap to the head. Jackson pulls back with a scowl.

"Timing of the _century_." He mutters, leaning in for one last kiss on his favorite curve on Maggie's neck. "I'll get it."

"Hate to see you leave..." Maggie calls, sweetly. Jackson sways his hips in response, earning an enthusiastic applause. He opens the door, unable to bite back his grin, and sees-

"Hey, Jackson."

-Richard.

Jackson's smile fades, easy mood fluttering to the floor. ...What does _he_ want? He glances over his shoulder (nobody else), then back. The man looks well enough, holding a small paper bag (too big and round for a bottle of alcohol-) and his most casual sweater...

"Oh, Richard!" Maggie calls from the kitchen. "How are you?"

"Hey, Maggie. I'm well. Mind if I steal Jackson for a few minutes?" He holds up the paper bag. "I brought a peace offering."

"That's a very preemptive gift." She says, cheerily enough, though the glance she gives him is a look she's _also_ been using often lately. _If you need me, say the word._

Jackson steps back to let the man in, chewing down the automatic reactions (and twinge in his jaw). The first is the most impulsive, a simple rejection of _life_ intruding on the little world he's carved out to kick off the weekend. The next is hot on the heels of the first, plain interrupted lust. The last is...much deeper. Boiling through him. This has to do with his mother, because it _always_ does, and it takes all his willpower to tell the man to take his gift and march it back down the steps. His peace offering are hot, steaming apple fritters, nearly as big as his head.

Richard doesn't sit, leaning on the counter in a display of ease.

"I'm not here with any breaking news." He assures over the crinkling of Maggie digging in the bag. "I just think we should catch up. Clear the air a little."

Jackson smiles tightly.

"You could do that over email."

Richard folds his arms, watching him steadily. Maggie's dark eyes flick between them, halfway through a bite. Jesus. What a pain. Jackson turns on one heel and stalks over to his corner by the door, stuffing on his shoes, then pulling on a sweatshirt.

"All right. Let's go."

"Look...if you don't _want_ to talk-" Richard tries, ever the damn peacekeeper.

"Again. You could've done that over email or a text. You clearly want to talk in person, hence why you _came_ here in person with peace fritters, so let's get this over with so I can keep moving on."

The walk through the neighborhood is terse. It's a rare sunny day for winter, though the sidewalks are frosted and they have to mince carefully around slippery patches. Richard comments on a commercial for dog-safe sidewalk salt he saw the other day, which he currently could care less about. He then mentions a new slew of interns brought into the hospital, which thoroughly snaps his patience in half.

"That's great. Look. If you're trying to get me to talk to her..." Jackson says when they round the corner to the little park, currently empty. "You _need_ to understand that-"

"I support your decision, Jackson."

Jackson blinks. He slows to a stop next to the willow tree, currently bowed beneath a layer of snow. Richard stops a few feet away.

"That's just it, isn't it." The look in the man's eyes is heavy. It's not all that new, not with his position, and yet... "Just like that you expected the worst. Not just from her, but from me." He rubs the cold from his hands, looking off at the frozen pond. "I don't know when it got like this, but...I suppose _that's_ it, too. We're from two different sides of the fence here."

Jackson's heart sinks, thoroughly off-balance. His hands itch for a distraction. Clay, keyboard, something. He stuffs them into his hoodie's pockets. ...He's not wrong. It's a gap filled with _years_ of different stories. That's how his mother did things. Everyone saw something different from her, depending on where and when they slotted into the intricate web of her life, and he had the most consistent perspective of them all.

"You look good." He says, after the silence has hovered long enough. "Really good."

Jackson reaches up a hand to rub at his jaw, willing down the growing ache.

"Thanks."

They stand and shuffle uneasily around each other, awkwardness winding through them like a breeze. There's so much to talk about. So much he's tired of talking about. Richard's tired eyes look him up and down. He's seen so much of him. His best, his worst.

"...You were such a punk when you came into the hospital. I already expected a show when I saw your last name on the acceptance paper, but you ended up being a different story."

It's the beginning of a classic Dr. Webber speech. Jackson's heart grows swollen with the fondness brewing in his eyes.

"You were so _much_ like her, when it came to ambition and wit. For all that you were labeled the resident pretty boy and rich kid, you detested failure. The very idea of it. I could see that fire in your eyes the first day. Something that burned hotter than anything else."

Richard nods to himself, eyes scrolling in that vague way when someone is lost in memory.

"Even then...sometimes I doubted you. It's part of the job. I have to consider things not working out, on the patient end of things, on the doctor end. Despite flourishing under Sloan, you and April really had me wondering if you'd be in the field at _all_ , much less all the messes happening in-between." He sighs. "I thought you finally got your act together after all those hits. You were working on your spray-on skin patent. Vaginal reconstruction. You got together with Maggie, which was one of the finest choices you ever made, really. Then you dumped her, rebounded and decided you wanted to be a firefighter..."

The guilt is smaller, doesn't sting quite as hard. The man stops himself with visible effort.

"I...don't need to relay your entire history. You were there, especially for the part where I said I'd give you hell if you hurt her." He says, raising his eyebrows. Jackson resists the urge to hunch his shoulders. "What I'm _trying_ to get across is...I've seen so much from you, for so long, and all I've ever wanted is to see you thrive."

God. Jackson feels the childish urge to shuffle in place. He thought he made that last, final step leaving Grey-Sloan, but he suddenly feels just like he did when he started his first day.

"I was so scared for you, that day." He doesn't need to name it. The glass has become as inexorable as the air and sun in his life. "I sometimes wonder, even now, if I could've stopped it."

"You tried." Jackson says, staring past his shoulder. "I didn't listen."

Richard grunts an assent.

"Watching this fallout has been...excruciating, to say the least. I'm not someone who fashions myself as a helpless bystander." He waits for Jackson to match his gaze. "So I mean it when I say...I can only _imagine_ what you're feeling right now."

Jackson's throat jumps with hot, tight little movements. Touched. Aching. It's his turn to speak.

"I know you love her. I still love her. That will never change. I just..." He resists the urge to trail off into silence and have Richard fill in the gaps. It's his truth, and he deserves to say it. "...I can't have her in my life anymore."

His former mentor breathes in deep and lets out a long, tired sigh.

"...Yeah. I figured it was going that route. I've had to cut a few people off myself, in my time. My own brother included, after how he treated Maggie. I've told your mother to give you space, as much as she's seen fit to argue with me on the matter until she's blue in the face. I just wish..."

"...it could be different?" Jackson finishes. "So do I."

Does his mother even know he's here right now? She must be having a conniption fit, all these conversations and meetings happening without her say-so. Practically _under_ her own nose, in a city where she's practically queen. Guilt, pride and fear mix sickly in the pit of his stomach, almost as foreign as the freedom he's been enjoying for a year and a half.

"You can still come see me, if you want. As long as you don't go around spreading my business." Jackson adds, softly. "I know I got...tense...earlier, but I really don't mind."

"Okay." Richard looks grateful. A little surprised. "Thank you. I'm glad to hear that, and I'll respect your privacy." He chuckles, sadly. "Again. Trust me when I say I know the drill."

The air between them shifts back to something resembling normal. Not quite. Couldn't be. Jackson's heart pounds with the weight of it all.

"Is she..." He starts, then stops, shaking his head. "No. No, I'm...that's not my business anymore." He rubs at his cold knuckles in his pockets, watching the wind dust over the frozen lake. "It's not my business anymore."

That's that, and damn if that fact isn't terrifying and freeing all at once. They stroll through the park's cobblestone half-arc, the only sound breaking the quiet a flock of geese coasting in a crooked arc. The pain hasn't quite left Richard's eyes, but he still smiles sidelong at him. Just like he always has.

"So. I didn't just come here for donuts and tough talks. How's your game coming along?"

"Good. It's done, actually." Jackson enjoys the automatic smile that always comes with his new field. "I'm meeting up with a local studio to see if they'll be interested in adding it to their repertoire."

"I can't see why they wouldn't." He agrees, easily, and that simple support means the world. "You're practically redefining an industry."

He tells him about all of it. College. Therapy. Hopes and fears and dreams. They walk back home much more slowly. Richard is seeing a physical therapist for his back and is thinking of cutting his hours in half, as much as it hurts him to admit. He's also going on to a play with Sabi, because he's ' _getting old and doesn't feel like missing out on his personal bucket list to see Lion King live_ '. It's a little too chilly, even with the walk warming their bones, and they stop by one of the coffee trucks for a hot drink. Jackson rubs his fingers along the cup, watching the gentle flurry build-up around them.

"I think..." He murmurs beneath the blowing of the wind. "...I'm going to send her a letter."

***

_got a therapist, Ben, 1:21 p.m._

_damn, already? you're good, Jackson, 1:24 p.m._

_I mean, just add 'finding a therapist for the first time' on my list of random skills, Ben, 1:25 p.m._

_you tell me how it goes, okay? keep in touch, Jackson, 1:29 p.m._

_I will. Not gonna lie, it's kind of daunting. I grew up with share time being a beer and open fire conversation type thing, Ben, 1:30 p.m._

_you'll get used to it. it'll feel totally natural., Jackson, 1:35 p.m._

_so, uh...is now a bad time to ask for another bottle of wine?, Ben, 1:37 p.m._

***

" _Holy goddamn_."

"Ha, what kind of curse is that-"

Maggie presses her laugh against the back of his neck, and he's sputtering a laugh himself, helpless and tumbling. He hums under his breath, rocks back into her, enjoying the way his mind rises and falls in perfect tandem with her movements. She reads him like a textbook, dipping her head over his shoulder and dusting light kisses along his cheek.

"Your mind's wandering a bit. I guess I need to try harder."

"No, no, that's not it. I'm...I'm just happy." He sighs loopily, dropping his head down and enjoying the stamp of her breasts against his back. " _Juust_...reflecting on it."

" _Weeell_ , you can reflect on it when it's over." She leans in closer, purring against his mouth without quite kissing him. "Right now...be with me in the moment."

Like usual, she's got a damn fine point. Jackson slides a hand along the nape of her neck and grips, biting his lip and thrusting his hips back, grunting through gritted teeth at each perfect stroke. Normally he liked facing her, all the better to suck in her tongue and never let go, but she'd wanted to shake things up with a new position. Now he can't stop shaking, and it's-

"Is this good?"

"Mm. _Mm-hmm_."

She chuckles against his ear, used to it by now. It's good. _Too_ good. Every rock of her hips and he's trying not to groan out all the air in his lungs. Thoughts of virtual reality and the little dangers of everyday life and distant dreams all blur together, nothing but bloodpumping pleasure in his ears and rippling down the low of his back to burn behind his hips. He knows she's getting wet by that hitch to her breath, the new toy clearly doing its job to rub her every time she presses close.

"You almost sound like you're in pain, sometimes." Maggie whispers, breathlessly, followed by a nuzzle into his sweaty temple. "Don't get me wrong, listening to you is probably the best part of this-"

"Yeah." He grits, burying his forehead into the crook of his arms. "It's good pain. Great pain. F-Faster, _please_."

"Okay, babe."

She picks up speed in a rolling repetition, her aim perfect now, and he loses all his air in a whine. The first time had been fumbling and vulnerable and wonderful. The following few were experimental, tangled limbs and different positions. Now they're experts, because there isn't a shred of noise in his head and he can't speak for the _life_ of him. She holds him, in that way she looks at him, in some way he can _feel_ , and it finishes him off.

His body blooms into a supernova and he's choking on syllables, so he speaks with his body instead. First when he claws helpless rivets into the pillow. Second when he writhes, a helpless wriggle she pins into the sheets with all her weight. Third when he goes rigid, then loose as silk, head spinning up and out of the room. He's vaguely aware of rolling onto his back to hold her to his sweaty chest, rubbing a hand between her legs to catch her up to speed.

" _I love you_."

They rinse off in a lukewarm shower. A song plays in his head, the first concrete thought to return to him after the blissing out, and he hums it under his breath as he massages conditioner into Maggie's hair. Time drifts to a crawl when they curl naked on the bed again, sharing a joint from Link's stash and murmuring about nothing in particular.

***

The studio is a small start-up, but he's seen enough of them to know which ones are onto something and which ones are dead on arrival.

The team of seven is a mixture of flustered, delighted _and_ suspicious when he arrives, which he understands completely. They have two successfully crowdfunded games to their name, the third in-progress and struggling in that limbo of a newly crafted core audience and a hard act to follow. His time at the Avery Foundation, as well as instructing countless interns, has made him a magician at working through doubt. He carries the tight ball of victory in his chest when he attends the last class of the quarter, making a beeline for his usual computer.

" _Thompson!_ "

The man is bundled up in a sweatshirt, hoodie and jacket, the only thing more layered and ready for winter his chair swathed in a knitted blanket. He swivels around, shoulders pricking up nervously.

"Uh-oh. What'd I do?"

"A _lot_ , actually." Jackson hooks a computer chair with one foot and tugs it over to squat in front of him. "I wanted to ask you something."

The studio has been considering bringing in a few new people, flip-flopping on the decision as only a budget-tight collective can be. It's a full-time position with medical, dental and paid sick leave, because anything less was an insult to the idea of an equitable future. Crunch is _strictly_ off-limits, with project deadlines negotiable and an omnipresent window open to bring in freelancers if they need a little more polish. A year of production time is expected, with financial success paving the way for more under the virtual reality and console umbrella.

For a full minute Thompson sits and stares, like he's grown purple fur and he has no idea how to start telling him. Then he grips his hand and shakes it so much his arm aches, and that's exactly the kind of thing he hopes happens more often in this new life of his.

***

_Do you remember what you told me when I was a kid?_

_I was seven, I think. Maybe eight. It was a sunny day at Harper's house. You told me about legacy and what it means. How it affects the people around you. The people you don't know and never will. The people you meet in a roundabout way, in the form of a signed document or the teachings instilled in a student. You taught me about legacy many times after that, telling me when you weren't showing me, and it's something I've never forgotten. I know now why he was in such a bad mood that day. That horrible secret he kept hidden to honor a false truth._

_Better late than never, right? I've had to internalize that phrase, more than you know._

_I thought I wanted my legacy to be the Avery Foundation's. For years all I could see was the perfect shape of it in my hands, whether they were covered in blue gloves or blue ink. A perfect shape shining through the pall my father and grandfather settled over it. The ongoing determination of a capitalistic country that filters human rights through numerals instead of compassion. The awful impartiality of a universe none of us fully understand. That was what my legacy was up against. My foundation. My family._

_I trained under Mark Sloan. The best teacher for the best foundation the medical industry could ask for. Richard Webber. Miranda Bailey. You. I learned from them all. I fought to be more than a pretty face with a trust fund. I earned my respect, one surgery after the other. I've risked my life, several times. I've sacrificed sleep and health for the greater good. I'm not proud of everything I've done over the years, but I had always been proud of that._

_For so long I never questioned that pride, but here I am._

_When I found out you were overseeing the medical boards I had to fight back a nervous breakdown in the public restroom. I never told you about it, because I thought it was perfectly normal, and I also never told you about all the other episodes I've had behind closed doors at the mere thought of your disapproval. I tried to fuck the fear away. Drink and distract it away. All it did was pack the pain into a clot that nearly ruined every good thing in my life. The Avery Foundation is in my blood, and it's never been good for me._

_I've had a lot of hits to that pride these past few years. One of the last cracks in that glass was finding out what my grandfather did. I'll be honest. I respected him growing up, but I never loved him. He treated me like a chore. I was something to be herded around, seen but not heard, and I know you knew, because you tried as much as possible to keep him a distant influence in my life. I just wish you took your own advice. I wish so badly all of this could be different, but that's just it. Things can be different, but only if I do what I've been too scared to do for decades and chart my life without your approval._

_I never thought I'd be anything other than a surgeon or a nurse, but I am. I work in medical virtual reality and small business financing now. I take naps on weekday afternoons and sculpt clay with a glass of wine during my off-hours. I go jogging almost every morning, make coffee from home and get lost in good books without productivity on the mind. I can't believe this is what it's like. I've never felt so clear-headed. So...peaceful. When I was committed I thought that was the end of it all. I forgot what it felt like to love anything. I realized I didn't really know how to love myself. Not properly._

_I remember now, or perhaps I've learned what I never knew, and I won't forget again. I have a woman in my life who makes every day somehow more magical than the last, and I want to spend forever with her. I have a beautiful daughter who will never feel like she's never enough, never collapse where no one can see and try to aspire to perfection. I have my friends, my therapists, my peace. I carve out my life. I nurse my joy. I've saved so many lives, and now it's time to save my own._

_My legacy isn't reliving old ideals or marching in the shadow of eternal dissatisfaction, but in everything I do and every life I touch. I never thought I'd say I'm happy, with no strings attached...but here I am._

_This is my life now, and you need to let me go. Just like I have a daughter to raise and a woman to love and a new career to build, you have a hospital to run and a husband who loves every breath you take. For nearly forty years I've stood by your side. Now you need to move forward on your own. You had raised in your son an empire, but he was only ever human, with all the hope and hubris that comes with the title. What you see as falling from grace is me sinking into flight._

_Letting me go isn't failure. It isn't rejection. It's love._

_Please let me go, Mom._

_I love you, and I always will._

_Let me go._

_\- Jackson_

* * *

_What is your legacy?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. What a _busy_ past few weeks. I've found myself having to finish this fic in little increments -- a paragraph here, a sentence there -- and, eventually, it gets done.
> 
> I was actually hoping to finish this fic, and the series at large, before the rest of season seventeen airs, but...that's clearly not going to be the case! Ah, well. I'm fine with that. I know I'm going to want some cathartic writing sessions while the show continues to pretzel-twist and shark-jump its way out of any credibility it used to have. Onward! If you're craving a little more one-on-one Jaggie time, you'll have _plenty_ to enjoy with these last few chapters.
> 
> Also, I'll say this again and again: thanks to all still reading. It means _so_ much you keep returning to this little rarepair epic of mine. Sometimes pairings just grab you by the neck and don't let go.


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